Work Text:
A half-blood of the eldest gods
Shall reach sixteen against all odds
There is a moment between life and death were everything stops. The world is so quiet, yet so loud. A moment where you are completely aware of everything around you, yet nothing seems to register. You’re stuck in a kind of limbo, unable to move forward but you can’t stary still. You’re so cold, there’s no feeling at all, yet you’ve never felt more alive. Thanatos thought it was most ironic; the time were most mortals felt alive was at the moment of their death. The pure liberation they experienced through the release of their soul was incomparable to anything else.
It was one of the few joys that he got to experience as a chthonic deity, the pure relief people felt in death. Those suffering from pain (mental, physical, it was all pain no matter the form) were finally free of it. From children barely hanging onto life in hospitals, their bodies desperately battling an illness they’ll never beat; to soldiers slowly bleeding out a battlefield, watching their comrades and enemies alike succumb to the brutalities of war; death was a release to them. A mercy.
As he looked on at the battle before him, children (literal children) being slaughtered with little thought, he felt immense sorrow. These children would find relief in death, yes, but the repercussions for the living would be immeasurable. The soul he was about to collect for example: a 16-year-old son of Apollo; dead even before he hit the water. From what Thanatos could gather, the boy was a leader, an older brother, a friend. Who would care for his younger siblings now that he was gone? Who would comfort the wounded, the sick? Who would burn the shrouds? It was almost too much even for death. These children should be safe, should be protected by their parents. Not used as cannon fodder in a war they didn’t ask for.
He wonders, not for the first time, if death is kinder than life.
And see the world in endless sleep
The hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap
Kronos, despite what the myths may tell you, did care for children. He had adored his nephews and nieces. He had mourned his own children (his precious children) when Uranus’ curse had taken affect. He hated every moment that he had to fight his children (except Zeus, that bastard could suffer for all the harm he had cause over the millennia). These children were no different. They did not deserve to fight in their parent’s war, did not deserve to die in the name of Gods who had abandoned them for most of their lives. Kronos did not want to fight children. He didn’t want to see the light leave their eyes; their final breaths fall short. He couldn’t bear the thought of looking on as the fates cut each and every one of their strings. When Castellan had first approached him, asking for his help, he had assured Kronos that the children would be left out of the fighting proper; that the Gods and elder demigods would be the ones to go into battle. He had been lied to.
Kronos had less control over their body then he would have liked. He could have prevented so many deaths. It was Castellan who was in charge of their body as they stormed Manhattan, ordering the army based on their spy’s information. It was Castellan in charge as they slaughtered demigods left, right and centre. Young, old; friend, foe, He discriminated against none.
It was Kronos battling Castellan for control as they held a blade to his precious Grandsons neck and called a temporary seis-fire.
It was Kronos in charge when they negotiated, when his Grandson stood defiantly in spite of their losses. It was Kronos who bore the brunt of Athenas child’s anger. It was Kronos in charge as they turned away and retreated back to their forces.
It was Castellan in charge as soon as the battle begun again.
It was Kronos in charge when the Athena girl handed the knife to them, it was him who plunged the dagger into their mortal point. They had lost this fight form the moment his grandson had refused to join them. Any further conflict would just lead to more unnecessary deaths (more children to burn shrouds for. They would have been honoured in the new world no matter the side they fought on) It was him who liberated himself form the mortal shell, scattering his essence so that he may finally be at piece for once.
It was he who passed on his domains, fully and willingly to the new immortal in the room. For Perseus was just and kind in a world that was so used to selfishness and hate. It was Perseus who would bring about the new age, perhaps not the one that he had envisioned, but a new age all the same. It was Perseus who would keep the children safe.
A single choice shall end his days
Olympus to preserve or raze
In the deepest depths of the earth, below the layers of man’s history and the most ancient of earth, the underworld was alight with activity. Souls flooded in like water through a broken dam. The courts were working overtime, passing judgment on every hero, villain, and forgettable human to try their luck. Charon looked at the latest boat of souls he was ferrying across the Styx. Children, they were all children. Children who had been slaughtered before they were fully grown (still dressed in their armour, still holding their weapons). Children whose eyes, even in death, were more haunted than most adults he had seen. Children who were only a handful of the many waiting demigods in the lobby for a place on his boat (there was no joking about bath-tubs this time. No, this was much more sombre). He watched, for the third time, as they filed out and stepped onto the banks. There were still so many boatloads left to bring.
In a small corner of Elysium, there was a house. It was small, the kind of house you would pass by on a walk and not think twice about. It had pale blue walls and white trims; a little herb garden growing out the front. It was unremarkable in every way, yet something about it drew Elysium’s residents in.
A hanging bench and coffee table made the porch cozy and inviting; the grass, green as it was, was perfect for playing and relaxing alike. Smoke could often be seen drifting form the open windows, carrying the delicious sent of fresh chocolate chip cookies. Everyone from Patroclus and Achillies, to Mother Terisa and the late Queen Elizabeth felt drawn to not just the house, but the young woman that resided there.
Sally Jackson was a woman with a well of kindness and a heart of gold. She welcomed anyone and everyone to her little corner of paradise, sharing all she had and expecting nothing in return. Her little house was a safe space for all, somewhere to go when the longing for home became too much (for even in death, it was possible to miss the simple things like the embrace of a mother). She would sit in silent companionship for some, talk to many, listen to more, and offer comfort to all.
So, when to newly desist demigods entered through the gates of light, it was Sally that they were brought to. It was Sally that held them as they cried; as they grieved, even in death. It was Sally who offered them fresh chocolate chip cookies and tea, watching them giggle at the colour. It was Sally who gave them a place to stay, a place to be the children they never go to be.
It was Sally who cried when she realised her son was not with them.