Chapter 15

"Aaaah….interesting."

"What's interesting? Can I see?"

In the hallowed chamber, far removed from mortal eyes, where the very fabric of existence was spun, measured, and cut, the three Fates worked in harmonious silence. Threads of lives—mortal and divine—crossed and tangled, forming the great tapestry of destiny.

Lachesis, a striking middle-aged woman with eyes that held the wisdom of ages, carefully allotted each thread its due length and place. Her fingers hesitated for a fraction of an eternity, hovering over a thread that shimmered with an unaccustomed luminosity.

"Hmm, an intriguing twist in Adamantia's fate," she murmured, her words laced with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

Startled out of her usual cheerfulness, Clotho, who appeared no older than a bubbly teenager, sprang up from her spinning wheel.

"What? Let me see alreadyyyy!" Her eyes widened with wonder and her hands reached to snatch a glimpse of the enigmatic thread.

With a gentle but firm tut, Lachesis flicked Clotho back into her space.

"Patience, young one," she chided, her voice drenched in a motherly tone of rebuke.

Clotho pouted theatrically, turning her gaze to Atropos, the oldest among them. Unlike her sisters, Atropos seemed ancient, almost timeless, her gaze perpetually focused on the cosmic scissors that determined the end of each thread.

"Atropos! Lachesis is keeping secrets again!"

Atropos looked up, her eyes meeting Lachesis's, and chuckled softly. "Well, it's not like we don't have eternity to share them."

Resigned, Lachesis held the gleaming thread aloft for Clotho to marvel at. "Behold. Medusa's spirit has been freed."

At that moment, the air in the chamber seemed to pause, holding its celestial breath as if even the cosmos understood the gravity of Lachesis' words. The ethereal tapestry behind them rippled faintly, as if acknowledging a burden lifted, a spirit unshackled.

Then suddenly, Clotho broke the silence. Like a meteorite shattering a planet, her gasp filled the vast expanse of space.

"FINALLY! SHE IS FREE!"

Atropos set her shears on the ancient table beside her, her wrinkled hands hesitating for once, tinged with a momentary reverence. "Freed, you say?" She regarded her sisters with a meaningful glance, her eyes, aged but keen, watched as her sisters rejoiced in their own ways.

"Freedom is a rare gift, one not often granted by the skeins of fate we weave. It is a significant event, to say the least."

Lachesis, still holding the glowing thread, nodded. "Indeed. The ramifications could be felt across multiple lifelines, like a ripple expanding in still water. Even gods are not immune to the twists of destiny."

Clotho, ever the embodiment of youthful wonder, clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. "Oh, how magnificent it must be for a soul bound for so long to finally break free! To journey into the great unknown, untethered by past sorrows or cosmic designs! I am so happy for her!"

She suddenly grew solemn, her eyes turning towards the thread that belonged to Adamantia. "And her daughter…. Finally…"

Lachesis delicately placed the extraordinary thread back into the tapestry, securing its new path with a well-practiced twist of her fingers. "It's an anomaly, but one that feels...right, almost destined in itself."

At this, Atropos paused, smacking her lips, she set her scissors aside for a moment. "Oh dear, I remember cutting her thread. My my, my memory likes to fail me…"

Both Clotho and Lachesis turned to stare at her. "And you didn't think to tell us?"

Clotho asked, her voice tinged with both astonishment and reproach. Atropos shrugged, her ancient shoulders lifting ever so slightly.

"You both seemed so engrossed in your work. Besides, each soul must have its time, no matter how compelling its story."

Atropos's whisper seemed to reverberate through the chamber, each word imbued with a power that even they, the spinners of fate, seldom experienced. As the delicate thread ascended, transforming into countless twinkling stars, it was as though the very cosmos paused to listen, to honor, to remember.

"Beautiful," Lachesis remarked, her voice tinged with a mix of awe and quiet satisfaction. "In all our time weaving the destinies of gods and mortals alike, seldom have we seen a thread culminate in such a poignant spectacle. It is as if the universe itself conspires to give Medusa the peace she was denied in life."

Atropos, often the sternest among them, could not conceal a smile, as brief as it was tender. "The cosmic scales tip and totter, often too weighed down by tragedy and injustice. But moments like this... they bring a sense of balance, however fleeting."

Clotho turned back to her sisters, her eyes shining brighter than the newly minted stars above. "We partake in weaving intricate tales, filled with joy and sorrow, triumph and defeat. But it's not often we get to see a narrative knot untangle itself, offering solace to a tormented spirit. It feels—"

"Right," Lachesis finished for her, taking Clotho by the shoulder and guiding her back to her station. "It feels right."

"And now," Atropos added, her voice softening to an almost maternal timbre, "back to work. After all, destiny pauses for no one, not even us."

Lachesis and Atropos exchanged a glance, their eyes meeting in a rare moment of shared sentiment, and then turned to look at their youngest sister. Her antics might be youthful, even frivolous at times, but they were always heartfelt.

"Clotho, come," Lachesis beckoned, gesturing to the spinning wheel. "We have much work ahead, and destiny waits for no one—not even us."

With a final smile, a blending of newfound wisdom and eternal youthfulness, Clotho returned to her place. The threads resumed their cosmic dance, spun anew by hands that understood, now more than ever, the profound weight of each life they wove into the fabric of fate.

***

In the chaotic whirlwind of divine combat, Poseidon found himself locked in a struggle with Hades, the Lord of the Underworld. Sparks flew as Poseidon's trident met the blade of Hades's scythe in a clash that reverberated through the very walls of Olympus.

"Athena!" Poseidon bellowed, seeking the aid of his battle-hardened niece. "We need to—"

Before he could complete his plea, a celestial spear, glowing with ethereal light, streaked through the air, aiming straight for him. Instinctively, Poseidon broke away from his engagement with Hades, rolling aside just in time to avoid Athena's deadly projectile.

"Athena! What—"

"You lying, treacherous cur!" Athena's voice ripped through the air, laced with an uncharacteristic fury that caused even the seasoned gods of war to pause and glance in her direction.

Without missing a beat, she unleashed a volley of divine spears, each glowing brighter than the last, embodying her palpable wrath. Poseidon managed to deflect them with agile flicks of his trident, but the energy required to fend off Athena's relentless assault was beginning to drain him.

"Listen to me, Athena! This isn't—"

Before Poseidon could articulate his defense, Athena hurled her shield. The ornate artifact spun like a discus through the air, its petrified face of Medusa glaring menacingly as it cut through the divine atmosphere. Poseidon dodged, but not swiftly enough to avoid the edge of the shield scraping against his shoulder, etching a wound that sizzled with celestial fire.

"Deceiver!" Athena roared, her eyes practically ablaze with the fire of betrayal and a deep, unsettling form of self-reproach. "How dare you! You made me, me!"

She threw yet another spear, her eyes ablaze with vengeance. "You made me curse my own handmaiden! You knew she was precious to me!"

Poseidon steadied himself, gripping his trident as he looked back at Athena, his eyes searching hers. For the first time in eons, he sensed vulnerability in Athena— not the kind that could be exploited, but the sort that arises from a shattered paradigm, a bruised ethos.

"Athena, listen to me. Adamanti-"

"Don't you dare utter her name!"

The weight of Athena's gaze turned back to the battlefield, where gods and demigods continued their cosmic dance of power and ambition, seemingly oblivious to the personal apocalypse unraveling between her and Poseidon.

In that moment, the Goddess of Wisdom was caught in an existential whirlpool, reckoning with her own flawed judgments, questioning the dogmas she had upheld for so long.

Athena glanced briefly at her discarded shield, the petrified face of Medusa now laying on the celestial ground— a haunting monument to her own failed wisdom. It was as if every spear she threw at Poseidon was also a stab at her own soul, each strike a desperate cry for a justice long denied, for a wisdom long compromised.

"Listen to me, Athena—"

Before he could utter another word, Athena hurled her shield with an explosive burst of power. The shield, once a symbol of her wisdom and tactical prowess, now bore the visage of a life ruined by divine injustice. Poseidon barely had time to dodge, the shield's razor edge grazing his shoulder, leaving a gash that even a god would find hard to ignore.

Athena stood there, catching her shield which returned to her waiting hand. Her eyes ablaze with a mixture of contempt and a deeper, more corrosive form of self-loathing. For in that moment, she was not just the Goddess of Wisdom or the Goddess of War; she was a divine being grappling with her own fallibility, drowning in the realization of her own grave errors.

Poseidon clutched his shoulder, the expression on his face a complex tableau of shock, pain, and a slowly dawning comprehension.

For the first time, he found himself at a loss for words, suddenly and deeply aware of the unspeakable rupture that had torn through the fabric of their divine family.

Poseidon, his eyes locking onto Athena's with a mixture of disbelief and weary resignation, lunged forward, trident in hand. Apollo and Artemis, their bows strung with arrows that seemed to glow with the sun and moon's light, flanked Athena.

The deities clashed in a maelstrom of divine might, elemental forces tearing through the very fabric of the cosmos, each combatant wrestling not just with spear, trident, or bow, but also with deeply entrenched beliefs and moralities.

As this celestial strife raged, Zeus and Cronos were locked in their own battle. The titan, embodying the dread and formlessness of a primeval darkness, extended a limb that transformed into smoky tendrils. The tendrils coiled around Zeus's leg, lifting him off the ground before smashing him down with a force that shattered the celestial floor beneath him.

Just as Cronos prepared to strike again, a gleaming ax sliced through the shadowy appendage. A scream—multi-layered, a chorus of ages—erupted from Cronos as Adamantia's weapon freed Zeus.

Ahmanet, channeling the primal energies of Sekhmet, thrust her staff forward. The ethereal light of her staff met the dark energies of Cronos, causing a volatile explosion of divine light and shadow.

For a moment, it seemed like the god-titan conflict would swing in favor of the new alliance, but with a swift, brutal motion, Cronos seized Ahmanet's staff and flung her into the midst of the already chaotic battle between Hades and Poseidon. Adamantia tried to capitalize on the distraction but was ensnared by Cronos's shadowy tendrils.

A void enveloped her. Adamantia's world became an abyss of darkness punctuated only by Cronos's voice, a haunting cacophony of life's every stage—infantile cries blending into the affirmations of adulthood and the senility of old age.

"Join me. Become a part of the new order, the new pantheon. Claim the power and respect you yearn for," the voices hissed in malevolent harmony.

Adamantia's laughter broke the encroaching silence. "Fuck off. I said it once and I will say it again. I don't want your twisted form of power or respect. What I want is for assholes like you to stop playing puppeteers with mortal will."

The serpentine symphony escalated into a resounding climax, every hiss and slithering an ethereal note in a melody of freedom and defiance. As Cronos's scream resonated, Adamantia felt something more in the music of the serpents—the faint but familiar presence of her mother, Medusa.

"Adamantia," a voice whispered, rising from the depths of the serpent sounds, "thank you for freeing me."

Adamantia felt an overwhelming rush of emotion as she recognized the voice.

"Mitéra," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe and sorrow.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't be there for you, my child," Medusa's spirit continued, "but know that I've always been with you, watching you grow, fighting your battles in the only way I could."

"And you have fought well, Mitéra. But please, rest now…" Adamantia replied, her eyes glistening with tears.

Medusa's voice, intermingled with the hissing chorus, grew warmer and more maternal. "I am so proud of you, Adamantia. You've become stronger than I could ever have dreamed. Now go, free yourself and others from the tyranny of gods and titans alike."

"And tell Goddess Athena-"

In that moment the serpentine symphony reached its crescendo and Adamantia nodded.

Cronos howled in anguish as the tendrils of shadow that ensnared Adamantia evaporated into nothingness. As they did, the voice of Medusa also faded, ascending into a higher plane, finally unburdened and free.

As Adamantia returned to the celestial arena, her heart swelled with newfound strength and resolve. If the spirit of Medusa could fight back the dark influence of a titan, then surely, she could challenge the gods who bound her destiny.

Eyes ablaze with purpose and love, she reentered the fray.

Cronos recoiled, his hands clutching his face as he wailed in an agony that transcended time. "My eyes! They burn!"

Seizing the moment, Ahmanet sprang into action. Her staff, glowing with a primal power that reflected her lineage, carved through the air in a swift arc. With a thud that resonated in the very foundations of the cosmos, the staff collided with Cronos's head, sending him stumbling backward, his form momentarily losing its cohesion.

But before Adamantia could capitalize on Ahmanet's attack, the air thickened around her. Tendrils of smog, the very essence of Cronos's dark influence, coiled around her legs and arms, halting her charging speed as if she had hit an unseen wall. In the blink of an eye, another surge of tendrils shot out, this one aimed at both women.

Ahmanet and Adamantia were hurled apart like marionettes whose strings had been violently severed. Adamantia's back slammed against an ancient pillar, shards of enchanted stone scattering around her.

Cronos roared, his form shifting and morphing into an amorphous monstrosity. Tendrils of dark mist erupted from his mass, lunging toward Adamantia, who had been thrown against a pillar, dazed and vulnerable.

She barely had time to look up; her eyes met the looming darkness, and she realized she was out of time. All thoughts turned to her axes, lying just inches from her grasping hand. But even as she reached for them, a new shape interposed itself between her and the incoming tendrils—a shield, a last line of defense in a war between epochs.

It was not enough to stop what was coming, but perhaps, it was enough to give her a fighting chance. It was Poseidon, his trident gone, arms spread wide, as if intending to embrace the darkness.

Poseidon turned his head, his eyes meeting his daughter's just as the tendrils reached him.

"Adamantia," he said, his voice tinged with a blend of sorrow, regret, and something else—love, perhaps. "I spoke to Cronos, tried to convince him to spare you. It's the least I could do to make amends."

Adamantia's eyes widened, her heart pounding with a mix of confusion and anger.

"I didn't ask fo-"

"I know it's not enough," Poseidon's voice trembled, imbued with a sorrow and resolution that cut through the clamor of battle. "But I wanted to do something right, if only to make up for lost time."

As he spoke, the tendrils of shadow pierced through him, lifting his body into the air like a macabre puppet. A visage of tormented relief flashed across his face as his body went limp, dangling in the void.

With a casual flick, the dark appendages shook him off, letting his form plummet to the ground. The tendrils retracted, slithering back into the ever-changing mass that was Cronos.

Adamantia, momentarily paralyzed by the horror and confusion of the moment, snapped back to reality. Her axes lay forgotten as she rushed to her fallen father, cradling him in her arms. Her eyes were wide pools of swirling emotion—grief, disbelief, and a raw, untamed fury—all intermingling in a look that pierced through the veil of divine detachment. Poseidon's head rested in the crook of her arm, his eyes vacant but peaceful, as if in his final moments he found some semblance of redemption.

His face, though pallid from the loss of celestial vitality, was a mirror to her own—reflecting a complicated tapestry of love, regret, and a final, devastating understanding.

Confusion and rage roiled within her as she looked up to see Cronos approaching. His tendrils—sinister extensions of his malevolent will—unfurled like dark blossoms poised for a deadly bloom. Just as the air grew thick with the tension of impending doom, a torrent of energy erupted from somewhere behind her.

Ahmanet's staff burst into incandescent life, its tip blazing with an otherworldly energy that seemed to defy the very essence of darkness itself. Sekhmet's power surged forward in a vengeful wave, crashing against Cronos's tendrils and making them recoil as if scorched.

Ahmanet's voice, rich with a blend of urgency and love, shattered the stillness that followed. "Adamantia! Get up! Fight!"

Her words reverberated through the chamber, intertwining with the lingering echoes of her magical onslaught, and jolted Adamantia out of her momentary paralysis.

As if guided by the divine hand of Fate—or perhaps, emboldened by the indomitable spirit of her mother Medusa—Adamantia felt a renewed vigor surge through her veins. Her senses sharpened, her grip tightened on her axes, and her focus narrowed.

Just as a tendril closed in on Ahmanet, Adamantia, propelled by newfound energy, vaulted onto Cronos's back, axes locked around Cronos's neck, successfully locking him in place.

"I hope you fucking die this time, asshole!" she screamed into his ears, her voice echoing with a wrathful timbre that shook the very foundations of the chamber.

In a fluid, seamless motion, Adamantia twisted her body around the amorphous form of Cronos, her axes serving as extensions of her own will. With a primal scream, she used every ounce of her strength to hurl him backwards, sending him crashing into the ground with a force that reverberated through the hallways of Olympus.