Date: The Dawn of the Olympians – Year One: The Great Binding
The silence in Cronos's ravaged throne room was a heavy, echoing thing, broken only by the harsh, ragged breathing of my brothers and the pathetic, ichor-laced whimpers of our bound father. The Titan King, who had devoured his children and ruled the cosmos through fear for untold eons, now lay broken upon the floor of his own sanctum, ensnared by Hades' solidified shadows and his own shattered temporal power. The adamantine sickle, his symbol of terrible authority, lay discarded a short distance away, its once-gleaming edge now dull and stained.
Zeus stood over him, his Keraunos still crackling, his chest heaving. His eyes, however, held not just the exultation of victory, but a cold, calculating light as he surveyed his fallen sire. Poseidon, leaning heavily on his trident, bore fresh wounds from where Cronos's desperate, flailing attacks had landed, but his sea-green eyes blazed with a fierce, almost savage, satisfaction. Hades, a figure of absolute shadow, flanked Zeus's other side, his Helm of Darkness making him an extension of the very dread that emanated from the sanctum.
"It is done," Zeus finally said, his voice hoarse but resonant with undeniable authority. "The Age of Cronos ends."
"He cannot remain here," Hades stated, his gaze fixed on our father. "His very presence, even bound, will poison Othrys. Tartarus awaits him, as it awaited our Uncles."
The thought of consigning our own father, however monstrous, to that pit of eternal despair gave me a complicated pause. My Achieves recorded the grim necessity, the cyclical nature of power and rebellion, a truth as old as Ouranos's own fall. There was no joy in this, only the stark reality of a war won and a tyrant needing to be permanently unseated.
Zeus nodded. "The Hekatonkheires will see to it. Their strength, and chains forged by the Cyclopes from the heart of this blighted mountain, will suffice."
Messengers were dispatched – swift-footed nymphs who had braved the battle to serve us – and soon, the ground trembled with the approach of our giant kin. Briareos, Kottos, and Gyges entered the throne room, their hundred arms and fifty heads regarding the fallen Cronos with a mixture of ancient hatred and profound, grim satisfaction. The Cyclopes followed, bearing newly forged chains of black, Tartarean iron, each link as thick as my torso, glowing faintly with binding enchantments.
The binding of Cronos was a somber, almost ritualistic affair. There were no taunts, no gloating from my brothers. Only the heavy, rhythmic clang of hammers as the Cyclopes secured the chains, and the deep, shuddering groans of the Hekatonkheires as they lifted the immense, struggling form of the defeated Titan King. He cursed us, his voice raw with impotent fury, his eyes promising an eternity of vengeance, but his words were lost in the sheer, overwhelming power of his captors. I watched, the Tome of Attainment cool at my hip, recording this monumental achievement – the caging of Time itself, the definitive end of a cosmic tyranny.
The remaining Titan warriors, those not already crushed or bound, scattered like ash on the wind, some vanishing into the wilder tracts of the cosmos, others appearing before Zeus with their weapons cast down, their faces masks of terror. Othrys itself, once the thrumming heart of their dominion, now felt hollowed out, its grand halls merely echoing stone, awaiting a new purpose. When we finally stood again on Olympus, the air felt different from when we'd left for the assault – thinner, yes, from the altitude, but also charged with a tension that was less about war and more about… what came next. Rhea, Hestia, and Demeter met us on the newly fortified slopes, their relief so profound it was almost a physical force. Rhea wept openly, embracing Zeus, then each of us in turn, her ancient heart breaking with a mother's sorrow for the lost years and a fierce pride in her victorious children. Hestia's gentle light seemed to burn brighter, a soft smile gracing her lips. Demeter, though her eyes still held the shadow of her long grief, touched the scarred earth of Olympus and seemed to draw a renewed strength from it.
Hera, however, was already looking towards the future. Her gaze, when it fell upon Zeus, was filled with a possessive, almost proprietary pride. She stood beside him as he addressed our assembled allies – the Cyclopes, the Hekatonkheires, the Pelasgian elders, the assorted nature spirits and minor deities who had thrown their lot in with us.
There was no wild revelry, no grand feasting, not yet. The cost of victory had been too high, the war too long. Instead, a solemn council was held in the largest of the Cyclopean-forged halls on Olympus. The first council of the new age. Zeus, naturally, took the central seat, the Keraunos laid before him. His pronouncements were no longer those of a rebel leader, but of a sovereign. He spoke of a new era of order, of justice (his justice, I noted), of the Olympians as the rightful inheritors of the cosmos.
My siblings settled around Zeus, a new energy about them. Poseidon's hand kept drifting to his trident, his gaze often turning west, towards the unseen sea, a restless look in his eyes. Hades, quieter than ever, seemed to draw the shadows of the new hall around him like a familiar cloak, his attention inward, towards the deep places of the world. Hera sat closest to Zeus, her contributions to the discussion sharp, focused on the establishment of laws, hierarchies, and the proper dignity of their new reign. Her ambition was no longer a subtle undercurrent; it was a clearly stated intent to be Queen.
Hestia and Demeter spoke little, their concerns more for the healing of the world, the restoration of life and sanctity, than for the division of power.
I watched my siblings, saw the fire of ambition in Zeus's eyes, the proprietary gleam in Hera's as she surveyed Olympus, the raw elemental hunger in Poseidon's. They were already looking to divide the spoils, to establish their power. My own thoughts, however, kept returning to the quiet certainty of the Tome, the vast, ordered potential of knowledge. This new Olympus, with its inevitable struggles for dominance and its focus on outward displays of authority, felt alien to that core part of me.
Zeus, in his address, spoke of new domains, of each of us finding our place, our sphere of influence in this new cosmos. "The world is ours to shape," he declared. "Each of us will have a realm to govern, a power to wield in service of this new order."
His gaze fell upon me. "Brother Telos, your wisdom, your unique sight, has been a cornerstone of our victory. What domain do you claim? What aspect of this new world will you make your own?"
The question, though expected, landed with a certain finality. I looked at the eager, ambitious faces of my siblings, at the dawning reality of Olympian rule, with all its future glories and inevitable flaws. "I will have no kingdom of mountain or sea or sky, brother Zeus," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "My domain is not of such places." I touched the Tome at my hip. "I will create my own. A repository. A place of all that is known, all that has been achieved, all that will be. The Achieves. There, I will gather the truths of this cosmos, and any other."
A silence fell. My siblings looked at me, some with confusion, Hera with a flicker of what might have been disdain for such an un-kingly ambition. Zeus, however, studied me with that unnervingly perceptive gaze. "A library, brother?" he finally asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"More than a library, Zeus," I corrected gently. "An archive of existence itself. A place of understanding. And it will be… separate."
The Titanomachy was over. The Tyrant King was in chains. A new age had dawned. But as I declared my intention, I knew my own path, my own greatest achievement, was just beginning, and it would lie apart from the gilded splendors and inevitable intrigues of the Olympian throne they were so eager to build. My kingdom would be one of knowledge, its borders infinite, its only subjects the truths I gathered.