Date: The Age of Cronos – The Years of Six
Poseidon's arrival shattered the grim monotony of our shared entombment. His initial terror was a raw, primal force, his infant cries echoing through the fleshy chambers not as simple wails, but with the undertones of crashing surf and the shriek of ocean gales. Even as a newborn, his divine essence was unmistakably tied to the untamed waters, a wild, chaotic energy that felt starkly different from the more subdued divinities of his older siblings.
Hestia, true to her nature, provided the first anchor. She would hold him, her gentle light a soothing balm against his fear, murmuring soft, ancient lullabies that seemed to quiet the storm within him, if only for brief periods. Demeter, too, showed a maternal tenderness, her own sorrow momentarily eclipsed by the needs of this new, terrified life.
Hades watched him with his usual bleakness, though I sometimes caught a flicker of something else in his silver eyes – perhaps a grim recognition of another soul condemned, or maybe even a grudging respect for the sheer, untamed power radiating from the infant. "He'll learn," was all he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Or this place will break him."
Hera's reaction was more complex. She observed Poseidon with a critical intensity, her brow furrowed as if assessing a new, unpredictable element that threatened her fragile sense of order. His messy, unrestrained expressions of distress and power seemed to offend her sensibilities. "Must he be so… vociferous?" she once remarked, her tone sharp, after a particularly violent outburst of Poseidon's nascent abilities caused the very floor of our prison to tremble.
For me, Telos, Poseidon was a new, vital dataset. My own divine form had matured further; I was no longer a child, but a young god, my mind a strange fusion of Alex's adult experiences and the slowly awakening divine consciousness. I found myself drawn to observing Poseidon, not just as a sibling, but as a phenomenon. His raw power, even in its infancy, was a stark reminder of what we were, what we were meant to be, beyond these oppressive confines.
As Poseidon grew, moving through the accelerated stages of godling development, his inherent nature became more apparent. He was restless, far more so than any of us. He'd shove at the moist, giving walls, a pointless effort, but he never seemed to stop trying. When his frustration boiled over, he'd roar, and the sound wasn't just a shout – it was a deep, crashing noise that made the damp air vibrate around us, like the impact of immense waves. His frustration filled the enclosed spaces.
I tried, in my own quiet way, to connect with him. He was closer to my own 'age' in terms of time spent here since a conscious awakening, if such a thing could be measured. "This place… it responds to Father's moods," I told him once, during a rare moment when his restless energy had temporarily subsided. "The tremors, the heat, the cold… there are patterns."
Poseidon looked at me, his eyes the turbulent blue-green of a stormy sea, suspicion warring with a desperate need for understanding. "Patterns? It's a cage!"
"Yes," I agreed. "But even cages have a structure. Understanding it is… something." It was the closest I could come to explaining my own coping mechanism, the constant work of my internal Achieves. He didn't fully grasp it, I knew. His nature was to rage against confinement, not to dissect it. But a seed of thought, perhaps, was planted.
The dynamics within our group of six shifted. Poseidon's more volatile energy sometimes grated on Hades' desire for quiet gloom or Hera's attempts at imposing decorum. Yet, his presence also seemed to stir something in us, a faint restlessness. Demeter would watch him with a particular sadness, as if his untamed spirit reminded her most keenly of the wild, growing things she'd lost.
My own abilities continued their subtle, internal development. The Achieves in my mind was no longer just a passive repository. I began to connect pieces of information, to form theories about the nature of our prison, about the faint divine energies that even Cronos could not entirely extinguish. I could sense the truth behind my siblings' words with greater clarity – the fear beneath Hades' cynicism, the ambition coiled within Hera's pronouncements, the deep well of Hestia's endurance, Demeter's unwavering connection to life, and Poseidon's fierce, desperate yearning for freedom. This perception was a double-edged sword, offering understanding but also highlighting the painful deceptions and self-deceptions we all employed to survive.
One turning, after a particularly violent spasm from Cronos that left us all shaken and disoriented, Hades spoke, his voice lower than usual. "He fears. Still. After all this time, after swallowing six of his own, the fear still gnaws at him."
Hera scoffed. "His fear is our prison. What does his state of mind matter to us?"
"It is everything," I found myself saying, the words emerging with a certainty that surprised even me. "His fear is the architect of this place. If it changes, perhaps this place changes." It was a sliver of a thought, a deduction based on years of observation, but saying it aloud felt like a small act of defiance.
My siblings looked at me. Hestia with her usual quiet contemplation, Demeter with a flicker of something unreadable, Hera with narrowed eyes, and Hades with a raised eyebrow, a silent demand for more. Poseidon, ever restless, just scowled.
"And how do you propose we change the fear of a Titan King, little brother?" Hades asked, his tone laced with its usual skepticism.
I had no answer, of course. Not yet. But the question itself, the act of considering our father not just as a monstrous jailer but as a being driven by a discernible, perhaps even predictable, emotion – that felt like a new entry in my Achieves. A step, however small, towards something other than passive endurance.
The years, or their equivalent in this timeless, lightless gut, wore on. We were six gods, suspended in the belly of our father, six sparks of divinity refusing to be entirely extinguished. That raw, sea-born energy always around Poseidon was a sharp ache for us all, a constant, painful intimation of a world beyond, a world we might never regain. In the dim light, when our eyes met, I saw the same weariness in them, the same silent plea for an end. It was a mirror to my own. But beneath that, for me, lay something else: the distinct, remembered narrative of a seventh child, the one who wasn't swallowed, the one who was meant to return. This foreknowledge set me apart, a constant, pressing awareness that was mine alone to carry. It wasn't quite hope – more like a desperately clutched piece of a map to a future I couldn't yet prove existed and certainly couldn't speak of.