Visitors & Plans

A century of shadows draped over my soul, each year an agonizing echo of captivity, a grim testament to the frailty of gods. The fatal flaws I embraced within my Zeus persona became the tattered threads holding the fabric of my sanity, a precarious tapestry stretched thin over the abyss. Pride, an unyielding shackle, bound me against the descent into madness, a venomous whisper in my mind.

In the abyss of confinement, anger became my solace, a molten current coursing through my veins, an infernal steel that etched the pain into my very core. It was the only sensation that tethered me to existence, a caustic elixir that painted visions of retribution on the canvas of my tortured mind. In the relentless embrace of despair, my anger became the pulsating heart of a fire, flickering with a cruel resemblance to hope.

Even in the darkness, my lust found a grotesque sanctuary, a distorted appreciation for the chiseled form of Hercules, the embodiment of my divine betrayal. His figure, a cruel masterpiece carved by deceit, invoked a wicked admiration amidst the desolation. In this infernal abyss, one takes what solace they can find, even if it's the twisted allure of an enemy.

Lying exhausted upon the frigid marble floor, the chains rattled their symphony of despair, and I lamented the cruelty of my fate. The opulent chamber, adorned with macabre opulence, echoed only with the ragged cadence of my breaths. The silence, a malevolent force, accentuated the torment as my body, a canvas of torment, sought solace in the feeble embrace of vanishing divinity.

The remnants of my divine essence struggled to mend the wounds etched by the hands of cruelty. Flayed skin slowly regenerated, broken bones sought reunion, and bruises whispered tales of torment as they faded into nothingness. In the surreal calm that followed, I wondered, detached and contemplative, how many more cycles of agony my weakened divinity could endure.

Over the relentless eons, my thoughts, once like a torrent, now meandered through the desolate landscape of my mind, seeking refuge in the recesses of strategies and plans. Yet, even with the scant knowledge bestowed by the fragmented awareness of the DC Universum, my musings were but shadows against the impenetrable fortress of my captivity. Weakened, chained, and captive, I stood powerless against the overwhelming tide of divine oppression.

The golden chain, an instrument of torment, adorned with ancient runes and dark enchantments, coiled malevolently around my neck, a metaphorical noose binding me to the wretched existence. It radiated a sinister aura, a palpable manifestation of my eternal imprisonment.

In the cold embrace of the marble floor, I succumbed to the bleakness, my eyes closing in weariness. The remnants of divine power, an ephemeral balm, sought to rejuvenate my shattered form. As my body mended, I pondered the cruel reality—I, a deity, chained and wounded, a puppet in a cosmic theater of despair.

But then, a sliver of change pierced the darkness. A tiny crack in the covered window allowed a ray of forlorn light to trespass into the abyss. My weary heart quickened as the feeble illumination intensified, transforming into a haunting beam of ethereal radiance. It compelled me to close my eyes against its brilliance, and in that moment, I sensed a presence, warm and elusive, unlike the brutish specter of Hercules.

Opening my eyes, I beheld him—the enigmatic god of the sun, Apollo. His customary smile, a beacon of hope in the Olympian pantheon, was conspicuously absent. Instead, a worried frown etched his divine countenance, casting a shadow upon the ephemeral light.

With a voice rusted by disuse, I croaked his name, desperation clinging to each syllable. "Apollo!" The echoes of forgotten screams haunted my mind, a cacophony of torment that threatened to shatter the fragile remnants of my sanity. Overwhelmed, I lost myself in the labyrinth of memories, the veil between reality and the specters of the past growing ever thinner.

As the god approached with a measured grace, his touch, gentle as a phantom's caress, served as both confirmation and reassurance. The mere proximity of his divine essence accelerated my healing, a warmth spreading through my ravaged form like a macabre revival. Yet, even in the spectral glow, Apollo's eyes bore the weight of an ageless existence, a depth of wisdom that spoke of unfathomable epochs.

"I didn't know. No one knew," Apollo confessed, his words laden with a sincerity that transcended divine eloquence. "I wondered where you went, but Zeus claimed you were on a task for him. I only noticed you by accident."

My confession, a tale of divine treachery and a century of anguish, spilled forth like an unholy hymn. "It was him! My father condemned me to this fate! Without warning, he tore apart my divinity and gifted it to Hercules. I've languished here ever since."

Apollo, his eyes wells of sorrowful understanding, began to unfurl the intricacies of my plight. "My dear child," he spoke softly, the weight of ancient wisdom permeating his words, "you must understand that severing a portion of a deity's divinity does not birth a new entity. These fragments remain tethered to the original source. Hercules, in his nefarious pursuits, uses stolen divinity as an energy reserve. Although he cannot directly breach your realm and status as a goddess, he siphons its essence for personal gain."

The revelation hung in the air, a bitter truth that clung to the recesses of my consciousness. I stood there, immobile and overwhelmed, as Apollo's words unraveled the fabric of my understanding. The seemingly boundless powers I once possessed now felt like elusive shadows, forever beyond my reach.

Driven by a surge of desperation, I reached out to the golden chain that bound me, tracing the intricate runes etched into the collar. When Hercules clasped it around my weakened neck, I believed it was merely a symbol of my diminished divinity. However, the truth now emerged—my powers were not stolen; they were actively suppressed by this malevolent artifact.

"Is there a way to open the collar?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of desperation and hope, directed at Apollo, the god of knowledge and revelation.

The god paused, his gaze fixated on the ancient symbols that adorned the oppressive shackle. "The runes and symbols on this collar are ancient and potent," he explained, his finger trailing along the wicked patterns. "They're designed to suppress a deity's natural abilities. To remove the collar… well, we'd need to decipher the runes, find a way to nullify them, and then release the enchantments binding it to you. But this would take too much time."

For a fleeting moment, the god ceased his contemplation, the weight of the divine dilemma bearing down on the chamber like an oppressive fog. "Alright then," Apollo pondered aloud, his celestial gaze scanning the abyss of possibilities. "Maybe we can try something else. What if we were to obtain just a tiny amount of his blood? He must have used it to lock the collar too. Smearing his blood on the collar should open it."

An unsettling worry etched across Apollo's divine features as he continued, "It's akin to ancient slave collars in this regard. But, as I said, I am unable to help you directly. If Zeus wished you to be here, who am I to disobey his whims?" With a graceful motion, he conjured a celestial bronze needle, a twisted instrument crafted from divine metal.

Holding the needle aloft, Apollo performed a spectral ballet, as if conducting an unseen orchestra of fate. Then, with a flourish, he let the needle drop to the floor, a careless act that concealed a subtle plan beneath the surface. "Oh dear! How careless of me!" he exclaimed, feigning embarrassment. "Well, time to go!" Gathering himself, he bowed grandiosely, a gesture reminiscent of a curtain call in a shadowy theater. With that, he dissolved into a cascade of shimmering light, leaving behind an ephemeral residue of hope.

Back in the clutches of the cosmic chessboard, I sent a silent prayer to Apollo, a plea carried on ethereal winds. Scrambling to retrieve the celestial needle, its presence both tangible and ominous in my trembling hands, I settled against the cold marble wall.

My mind, now a tempest of determination, worked in overdrive, crafting strategies born from the depths of despair. Armed with the needle, a weapon concealed in plain sight, I prepared for the nocturnal gambit that awaited—a single prick, one drop of blood, a macabre dance with destiny. As Hercules succumbed to the ephemeral embrace of sleep, the stage would be set, and the game would be afoot. This had to work, for the very fabric of my existence hinged on the success of this desperate waltz with darkness.