The Fates

The Endless, huh... They're like this ancient, wild bunch of beings, all walking around on two legs and stuff. They're not just your run-of-the-mill folks, though. Nah, they embody the very essence of creation. Sure, maybe God whipped up the whole Cosmos, but it's the Endless who breathed life into it and gave it purpose. Without them, none of this would exist. Not even little old me. It's crazy, right? But hey, at least they're as strange and out there as I am. We're all just a bunch of cosmic weirdos.

- Erebus, Primordial God of Darkness and Mist.

————

He succeeded.

He really succeeded.

At the precipice of Victory, it somewhat felt surreal.

Apollo's wry chuckle escaped his lips as he touched down on the scorched earth, shedding his divine form. With a keen gaze, he surveyed his surroundings, relying on his mysteries senses. The land bore the faint marks of a tremor, a subtle tremble caused by the disturbance of Gaea's wake. Yet, if his suspicions were correct, the impact should have reverberated throughout the entire globe, albeit without any catastrophic aftermath.

Gaea's power was truly formidable. Even in her slumber, she had the ability to shake the entire planet. It was a terrifying thought to imagine what she would be capable of if she were to awaken and unleash her full power.

Yet this primordial being was repeatedly bested by a group of demigods. Even after she awoke, she was effortlessly put back to sleep by Piper's mere glamour and easily blasted out by a small explosion from Leo.

Apollo called bullshit on that.

There must have been a hidden force at play, orchestrating events in favour of the demigods and ensuring their triumph over Gaea, the Earth Mother. It meticulously guided them every step of the way, guaranteeing their survival and ultimate victory, making certain that Gaea would ultimately be defeated and scattered.

As he reflected on those events with his divine perception, the possibility of such a event sent shivers down Apollo's spine. It was a terrifying prospect, one that now seemed all too plausible.

In hindsight, he realised that the demigods were merely puppets, manipulated and controlled by forces beyond their control. They were but dancers, their every move orchestrated by unseen strings.

Dark and cruel, right?

But that was simply the nature of this world, hidden beneath the veneer of dreams and adventures that it had presented to Apollo during his childhood in his previous life.

The gods, on the other hand, were somewhat better off, possessing a certain degree of autonomy in the face of those unseen strings. However, even their powers did not offer much resistance against the manipulations. If they wanted you gone, it mattered little whether you were mortal, monster, immortal, or even a god—you would meet Death. Only the Primordials possessed the power to defy and challenge such forces.

If you haven't already guessed, the puppeteers behind it all were none other than the Fates themselves—three ancient crones weaving the destinies of every being. And they were the foremost reason behind his daring endeavour to Delphi.

Yes, Apollo planned to meet with the Fates themselves.

Phoebus took a shuddering breath, his trepidation increasing as he made his way towards what appeared to be an endless sinkhole, as if it delved into the very core of the Earth. He stopped at the edge, extending his hand over it, allowing his fingers to emanate a radiant glow of power.

In an instant, the darkness of the sinkhole erupted into blinding light as a colossal form shot toward Apollo's hand. He grasped the lifeless Python, hauling it out of the abyss and onto the scorched ground. The creature's impact shook the earth, its chest torn open in a savage display of divine rage. Its shattered heart lay in grotesque pieces, marking the finality of its demise.

The arrow of vengeance, having fulfilled its purpose, dissipated into nothingness.

Apollo knelt before the lifeless body, examining it with both curiosity and uncertainty. Unlike other slain monsters that would disintegrate into golden dust, this one remained intact. It was a rare occurrence, but Apollo found it preferable. Every part of the Python held value, from its venom to its skin, from its fangs to its bones. Its carcass promised a treasure trove of resources.

The image of drachmas pouring into his vault brought a smile to Apollo's lips. He suppressed his fantasies and commanded the Python's remains to teleport to the island of Delos. The gentle dryads there would tend to the corpse until his return, ready to extract its worth. Perhaps he would even share some of its materials with his brother Hephaestus, who would undoubtedly grumble about Apollo's generosity while secretly revelling it.

The lifeless body of Python vanished in a teleportation of light, initiated by Apollo as he stood up and faced the earth in a moment of solemnity. Clasping his palms together, he let a sincere prayer escape his lips.

"Mighty Gaea, Mother of All Creation, I stand before you humbled and penitent. Today, in the face of your fury and anguish, I took the life of Python, the great serpent that guarded the Oracle of Delphi. I beseech you, hear my words, and accept my offering of remorse."

Apollo's voice carried on the gentle breeze, spreading his words across the expanse of nature that stretched before him. His gaze drifted towards the horizon, where the red hues of dawn danced upon the landscape.

"In my name, I honour Python," the God of Light offered solemnly. "This land, the very ground on which we battled, shall henceforth be known as Pythia. May its existence be eternally etched in the annals of history."

Pythia—the name itself held a mystic allure, a testament to the divine slaughter that had taken place on this very soil. Apollo's words reverberated through the surrounding hills as if carried by the winds, reaching the ears of all who bore witness to this tale and those who would come to know of it in the future.

As his words settled into the fabric of reality, Apollo stood tall, his gaze unwavering, fixed upon the newly named land of Pythia. In that precise moment, a primal presence surrounded him, a subtle shift in the air that awakened his senses. An earthly voice, infused with warmth and gentleness, reached his ears, evoking memories of his mother's soothing tones.

"You shine too bright," Gaea lulled, her voice carrying the wisdom of aeons. "for your own good, but forge ahead, Phoebus, forge ahead. Take the first step on your path."

The words resonated deep within Apollo's being, carrying a mixture of acknowledgment and caution. He nodded in acceptance of Gaea's counsel, somewhat surprised yet immensely relieved by her words. The weight of her presence gradually dissipated, fading away into the world as he turned and walked towards the cave of the Oracle of Delphi.

And that's how you escape the wrath of a Primordial with no consequences or repercussions, with just some wisdom and a little humility.

Thank him later.

———————-

Apollo stood at the mouth of the cave, his heart pounding in his chest. The weight of his impending confrontation with the Fates pressed upon him, filling his lungs with unease.

Call him foolish for planning to go in so blindly and recklessly, disregarding all the possible dangers and perils. It was so unlike him, but he had to do this for himself and his future.

This was personal on so many levels.

His very existence was an anomaly in the tapestry of the Fates. This was inevitable anyway. A meeting with the Fates was going to happen one way or another. He didn't know why they hadn't already appeared before him or tried anything, but it didn't matter anymore.

He was here, and he was going to face the Fates.

Apollo tightened his grip on his bow, his knuckles turning white with determination. Fear and apprehension coursed through his veins, but he refused to let them consume him. He had come too far to falter now. With a surge of fiery resolve, he stepped into the mouth of the cave.

Immediately, an overwhelming sensation of weightlessness washed over him, as if the boundaries of reality had dissolved. The world around him transformed into ethereal and illusory threads, guided by six hands of varying ages. These hands spun and weaved with mesmerising precision, forming a tapestry that seemed to stretch infinitely, embracing every being and object in the cosmos.

'What is this?'

'How can the Fates be so...?'

'No, something is wrong.'

'No, everything is wrong!'

'This is certainly not the world I assumed it to be!'

Apollo's mind was a jumble of chaos; his thoughts were scattered like fragments of shattered glass. The cosmic spectacle unfolding before him stirred a potent mix of awe and terror, leaving him grappling with an overwhelming sense of insignificance. In that moment, he stood as a mere flicker of existence in the grand theatre of the universe.

A profound helplessness gripped his being, rendering him utterly and irrevocably powerless. Yet, amidst this disarray, regret found no place in his heart. He had willingly embarked on this treacherous path, and he was resolved to see it through to its conclusion. Only a pang of sorrow flickered deep within him, reserved for his loved ones and the devastation they might endure should he never return.

But before a single word could escape Apollo's lips or the Fates could acknowledge his presence, an inevitable force materialised out of the empty void. Its ethereal strands coiled around him, yanking him away from the clutches of the Fates with a swift and resolute motion.

Apollo found himself hurtling through the tapestry of reality, a violent expulsion that left him disoriented and breathless upon collision with the ground. Sweat drenched his back, and he gasped for air, his chest constricting as a whirlwind of emotions churned within his being.

'This is no time to succumb to panic,' Apollo reminded himself amidst the turbulent storm of feelings. 'Pull yourself together, Apollo!'

With a determined effort, the God of Light managed to quell the rising tide of panic—at least on the surface. He forced himself to take stock of his surroundings; his senses were heightened and razor-sharp. The very sight that unfolded before him froze him, rooting him in his place in the stillness of time.

In front of him stood seven statues, each majestic and strange in its own unique way. The first depicted a hooded man, his figure bound by chains that clung tightly to a mysterious book. Next to him stood a gothic woman, adorned with a symbol of life dangling from her neck, casting an enigmatic aura.

Beside the gothic woman stood an abnormally thin man, his eyes twinkling like celestial wonders that captivated all who gazed upon them. On the other side, a red-headed, muscular man beamed with a radiant and welcoming smile, exuding an irresistible warmth and charm.

An androgynous figure followed, possessing a beauty so profound that it could perhaps make even Aphrodite herself feel inadequate. Their appearance defied the confines of conventional notions of gender or sex, existing beyond boundaries and expectations.

Among the statues, an obese, naked woman stood, her body unabashedly exposed to scrutiny. Perched on her shoulder was a rat, creating a bizarre contrast between vulnerability and strength.

Completing the ensemble, a young girl stood with eyes that spoke volumes of eccentricity and untamed spirit. Her gaze held the stories of countless adventures, a repository of untold tales waiting to be unravelled.

The seven statues stood together, creating a tableau that was both bizarre and eccentric, as if they were a testament to the intricate complexities of existence itself. But there was something peculiar about them—something that made them feel more than just lifeless sculptures.

The gothic woman's eyes bore into him with an unsettling warmth, as if she possessed a keen awareness of his very existence. The androgynous figure, their head tilted in a curious angle, seemed to be deep in contemplation, as if pondering his presence in their world. Meanwhile, the thin man, his eyes shimmering like stars, scrutinised him with unwavering focus, his gaze piercing through the layers of his being.

Then there was the last girl, her lips stretched wide in a joyful smile that seemed to radiate pure happiness towards him. Her eyes sparkled with a genuine Delight that instantly lifted his spirits, creating a stark contrast to the intensity of the others. And the obese naked woman and the muscular redhead man also fixed their gaze upon him, though their stares lacked the same penetrating force as the rest.

But amidst this horrifying and bizarre display, there was one statue that stood out from the rest—the hooded man. He remained completely still and unaffected, as if trapped in eternal stillness.

Apollo's eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat as he beheld the seven statues before him. The sight struck him with a force that shook him to his very core, surpassing even the cosmic and eldritch Fates he had witnessed before. "This is..." His voice trailed off into a haunting silence.

In an instant, his initial shock transformed into a vacant expression. His shoulders slumped, burdened by an unseen weight, and the radiant gold in his eyes dimmed, losing its ever-glowing luster as he continued to gaze upon the statues.

With a trembling breath, Apollo finally tore his gaze away from the statues, shifting his attention to a figure standing beside him. This person mirrored the statue of the hooded man, as though he had been there all along, seamlessly blending into the tableau.

"Greetings," Phoebus murmured, his head bowing in a display of deference as he struggled to muster a semblance of respect for the hooded man who personified the very concept he felt so conflicted with. "Destiny of the Endless."