Chapter 6, The Day the Gods Competed
Panathenaic Stadium – Midday, April 6th, 1896
The sun hung directly overhead now, blazing across the white marble like liquid fire. The ancient stadium—reborn in splendor—rippled with heat and noise. The sharp blue sky framed the flags of the nations fluttering proudly on their poles: France, Great Britain, the United States, Germany, Denmark, Greece…
And now—Russia.
A flag hastily raised. One that hadn't been flying that morning.
Because now, Russia had a champion.
And the world was waiting to see if he was real.
Beneath the shade of a cloth-draped platform, a marshal in white linen robes stepped to the edge of the field. He carried a silver whistle looped around his neck, a brass scroll case clutched under one arm.
He took a breath, scanned the crowd, and lifted the whistle to his lips.
Shrill. Piercing. Commanding.
It cut through the crowd like a blade through fog.
Spectators turned their heads. Vendors paused mid-sale. Even the noble boxes quieted slightly, fans pausing in mid-wave.
"Athlites!—Athlites tou akontismou!"
"Competitors for the javelin—come forward!"
His voice rang in Greek, then again in rough French, and finally in formalized English, for the benefit of the visiting powers:
"All registered throwers, assemble now! First attempts begin shortly!"
A dozen men began to move.
French athletes in navy sashes, their linen tunics cinched high and proud. A tall German with braided blond hair adjusted his leather belt. Two Greeks nodded at each other in quiet anticipation. A wiry British runner-turned-thrower jogged in place to warm his legs.
Their names were on the program. Their stories known to their nations.They were Olympians.
Then the crowd murmured.
Because he stepped forward.
Arthas.
Barefoot. Bare-chested. Cloaked only at the waist in dust-streaked gray, his long hair shining like polished brass in the sunlight.
He said nothing.
Made no gesture.
He simply walked.
And the air followed him.
The marshal stared. Just for a second.
Then glanced at the scroll of registered competitors in his hand.
"Arthas… Menethil?"
He looked up at the approaching figure again—who said nothing, just slowed his pace, stopping in line behind the rest.
The marshal blinked.
And said nothing more.
Because what was there to say?
The gods had answered the call.
---
Xania – Behind the Rope
Panathenaic Stadium – Midday, April 6th, 1896
She stood just behind the thin rope barrier, the only thing separating her from the sacred competition field—a single white cord stretched between brass posts. It fluttered gently in the breeze, but it might as well have been a drawbridge over a canyon.
On the other side: the world stage, where men proved themselves in numbers and speed and sweat.On this side: a young woman with dust on her hem, sweat on her brow, and the weight of an empire on her spine.
Xania didn't belong here.
Not by position.
Not by law.
But she had carved herself a place with her voice, her presence—and with him.
All around her, nobles whispered.
Russian officers stood nearby, their mustaches twitching with disapproval. A German count's daughter adjusted her hat and cast her a sideways glance. Two Ottoman dignitaries whispered about scandal and impropriety. One French journalist was already scribbling in a leather-bound notebook, eyes flitting between Arthas and Xania's bare shoulders.
But she ignored them.
Her hands were folded tightly just below her waist, the knuckles white, her nails leaving half-moons in her skin. Her heart thudded—not from exertion, but from conviction.
Don't look away, she told herself.Don't shrink. You chose this. You chose him.
Her dress clung to her back, damp from the sprint and the heat. One of her boots was still missing, and her hair had long since come unpinned. A delicate vine of curls framed her flushed face.
But she held herself tall.
Eyes fixed on him.
Arthas.
He stood at the line now—quiet, still, mythic. His body radiated heat and focus. His hands turned the javelin in slow inspection. He hadn't spoken a word since she signed his name, yet he dominated the field by presence alone.
The other athletes stole glances.The crowd still murmured.The officials pretended to focus on logistics.
But she knew what they were really watching.
Him.And her.
Because he was hers—and everyone could see it.
A nobleman to her left leaned toward his companion and muttered in French:
"She's ruined now. She won't marry after this."
Xania didn't turn.
But her lip curled upward in the faintest smirk.
Good, she thought. Then no one else will try.
She exhaled, eyes locked on Arthas.
Prove them wrong, she whispered into the roar of the silence.Prove them right.Prove you're everything I already know you are.
And when the javelin finally left his hand—
She did not flinch.
She did not cheer.
She simply smiled.
Because it had already begun.
---
The Javelin – A Weapon by Any Other Name
Panathenaic Stadium – April 6th, 1896
The javelins lay in a neat row near the edge of the field, each one resting delicately atop a velvet-lined case as if they were musical instruments rather than weapons. Long, slender shafts of polished ashwood, each balanced to perfection, tipped with narrow metal points dulled for sport but still gleaming in the sun.
They were standard issue, familiar to any trained athlete. Meant to be light in hand, aerodynamic, graceful in flight. Symbols of precision and control.
To the crowd, they were tools of competition.
To Arthas—
They were relics of war.
He stepped forward when summoned, his bare feet silent against the grass.
The other athletes watched him from the periphery—men in short tunics and sashes bearing national colors, each of them trained, seasoned, measured. Some wore leather sandals, others special-fitted shoes imported from Germany or France. Most wore expressions of calculation, or amusement.
But he—he wore none.
His face was unreadable. Not stoic, not focused. Simply… still.
A Greek assistant offered him a javelin with both hands, bowing slightly as he presented it like a gift to a prince.
"Careful, it's weighted at the head," the man said, his voice respectful but unsure.
Arthas took the shaft in one hand.
Immediately, the crowd noticed.
It looked… wrong.
Not clumsy.
Just small.
His fingers wrapped easily around the wood, and the length of the javelin—which usually demanded both hands to measure and balance—rested lightly in his grip as if it weighed nothing.
He turned it slowly, letting the shaft roll in his palm. His thumb brushed the leather wrap where competitors were trained to grip for maximum spin and torque.
But he didn't look at it like a tool.
He looked at it like a memory.
Too long for close quarters.Too narrow for a siege.But… it flies. That much I can tell.
The feel of it triggered muscle memory, dormant but real. There were no weapons like this in Icecrown. But once—long ago—he had trained with throwing spears in Lordaeron's forest barracks. Not for show, but for hunt. For survival. For execution.
His fingers tightened around the wood.
The grain was perfect.The balance, clean.No warp. No flex.
But it was fragile.
A single crack in the throw would shatter it.
And he knew that if he truly hurled it the way his instincts screamed, it would not just fly—it would break apart from the force.
This is not made for me.
Yet still, he held it.
One of the French competitors muttered to another in a low, amused tone:
"He doesn't even chalk his hands.""Let him try. He'll tear a muscle."
But their voices were already fading into the background.
Because the man holding the javelin wasn't flexing. Wasn't stretching.
He was measuring the field with his eyes.
The air shifted around him. A faint breeze brushed his shoulders. The warmth of the sun soaked into his skin.
And in his hand—
The javelin became something else.
Not a competition tool.
Not a symbol.
But a weapon.
A messenger. A statement. A claim.
---
The Throw
Panathenaic Stadium – April 6th, 1896
Arthas stood still at the throwing line, the javelin resting in his right hand, his left arm extended slightly for balance. The crowd had fallen into a hush—not reverent, not respectful, but breathless. Not even the wind dared to speak.
He didn't warm up.
He didn't bounce on his toes or shake out his shoulders like the other competitors.
He simply breathed.
Once.
Deep. Even. Controlled.
And then—
He moved.
It was not the jerky, pre-programmed rhythm of a modern athlete.
It was fluid.Predatory.Purposeful.
His first step was almost gentle, a glide across the grass that barely disturbed the soil.
Then came the second—stronger, more committed. His toes dug into the turf.
A third—his hips turning, spine twisting.
The gray cloak at his waist flared like a banner, trailing behind him.
The javelin rose behind him in a clean line, perfectly parallel to the field.
His chest expanded with one last breath, his ribs shifting beneath bronze-lit skin, every muscle along his arms and shoulders tightening in tandem.
Then—the release.
The throw was not violent.
It was perfect.
Like lightning guided by will.
The javelin left his fingers in complete silence, so smooth that for a moment, some didn't realize it had even been thrown.
It cut through the air, not as a curve but a line of purpose. No wobble. No flutter. Just a single, seamless arc through the bright spring sky.
It soared higher than any throw before it.
It climbed—not struggling against gravity, but riding it, mastering it.
Time stretched.
People leaned forward.
Even the announcers fell silent.
The javelin flew.
It passed the outermost markers with room to spare.
Past the furthest flags.
Past where the officials had laid rope.
One judge began to walk forward, eyes wide, tape in hand—then stopped.
Because the javelin landed so far beyond the expected range that it struck the turf with a sound not of sport—
But of impact.
A clean, sharp thunk.
No roll. No bounce.
It embedded deep into the ground, tilted slightly—like a spear left by a god.
There was silence.
Not the kind born of confusion.
The kind that comes when a crowd forgets how to react.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
And then—
One voice:
"Impossible…"
---
The Crowd Explodes
Panathenaic Stadium – April 6th, 1896
At first—nothing.
Silence. A stillness thick enough to press against the lungs. Thousands of people, seated shoulder to shoulder, leaned forward in breathless disbelief. A moment stretched beyond its natural shape, like time itself was unsure how to follow what had just occurred.
The javelin still trembled where it had landed—half-buried in the earth, tilted proudly, as if the ground had offered no resistance.
And then, slowly…
It began.
A single man in the lower section—French, elderly, in a fine vest—stood to his feet.
"Ciel…" he whispered. "He broke the horizon…"
His hat fell from his hand.
Next to him, a young Greek boy gasped and jumped onto his seat.
"He's a Titan! He's not a man—he's a Titan!"
A row of British nobles murmured loudly. An American journalist's pen scratched furiously on parchment, already missing half of it because his hand shook.
"Thirty meters past the mark…" one of the judges said, but no one heard him.
And then—
A woman screamed.
Not in fear.
In delight.
"HE DID IT!"
And just like that—the dam burst.
The Roar
It wasn't a cheer. Not yet.
It was a sound. A tidal wave of raw emotion surging upward through marble rows and human chests.
It rolled over the stadium.
First the locals—Greek farmers, children, merchants. Then nobles. Then athletes. Then foreign envoys. Then the press.
They clapped.
They screamed.
They rose to their feet.
Women dropped fans. Hats tumbled from heads. Programs fluttered like leaves in the chaos.
The applause wasn't polite—it was feral.
"That's not human!" "Did you see how he moved?" "He didn't even stretch!" "That throw—it sailed!"
An Ottoman dignitary dropped his cigarette.A Danish princess gripped her cousin's arm and whispered, "We just witnessed something ancient."A German coach sat down and removed his hat, eyes wide, lips parted in stunned reverence.
Up in the royal box, Crown Prince Constantine leaned forward, expression unreadable.
"Record it," he said to a court clerk. "Every detail."
Beside him, the King of Greece finally spoke:
"Who is he?"
The Chant
Then came the chant.
Rising slowly, awkwardly at first, from a group of children near the northern gate.
"Rus-si-a! Rus-si-a!"
It was picked up by a few spectators. Then by a whole row.
And then—the entire lower bowl was shouting it.
"RUSSIA! RUSSIA! RUSSIA!"
It didn't matter if they knew his name.
Because now he had a nation.
A legend.
A claim.
Arthas stood where he had thrown, unmoving.
He didn't raise his arms.
He didn't bow.
He didn't smile.
He simply turned—calm, silent—and looked toward her.
---
Xania's Eyes
Panathenaic Stadium – April 6th, 1896Moments after Arthas's javelin throw shatters expectation
Her body didn't move.
Not an inch.
The rope in front of her trembled from the vibrations of the crowd, but she stayed still—arms crossed tightly at her waist, hands gripping the fabric of her skirt so hard her knuckles had gone white.
Her eyes, though…
Her eyes never left him.
They were wide, unblinking, a brilliant, burning shade of deep sapphire rimmed with disbelief. Tears gathered at the corners—not from sadness, not even joy.
Shock. Pride. Possession.
He did it.He actually did it.
She didn't cheer.
She didn't smile.
She couldn't.
Because for the first time since she'd kissed him, she realized the scale of what she had unleashed.
The man she had kissed in a back alley—bare and dazed, steaming with power—had just turned a weapon of sport into a statement of dominance.
And now everyone saw what she had seen.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, but she couldn't hear it over the crowd.
Her lashes fluttered once, twice, as if trying to keep herself from crying. She refused. Not here. Not yet. Her eyes locked on his back—broad, scarred by sun and motion, framed by the knotted cloak tied around his hips.
He didn't look back.
Not at first.
He simply stood, the wind brushing strands of golden hair across his face, the cloak lifting at the corners like banners unfurling around a conqueror.
And then—
he turned.
Slowly.
Not to the judges.
Not to the cheering crowd.
Not to the royal box.
To her.
His gaze met hers, and the world stopped again—just for her.
Her lungs caught mid-breath.
That look.
It wasn't proud.It wasn't boastful.It was grounded. Calm. Fierce in a way that needed no fanfare.
Did I just bring a god into the world?
Her throat tightened.
Her lips trembled.
And for a split second, she felt small—not in fear, but in awe.
And yet… his gaze said only one thing:
I threw it for you.