Date: The Titanomachy – Year One: The Council on Ida
The climb up Ida was disorienting. Every gust of wind brought a shock of new smells; every patch of sunlight felt like a brand after the endless dark. Rhea guided us, her presence a steady point in the overwhelming newness of a world we had, until recently, only dreamed of in the vaguest sense. We finally stopped in a high grove. Old, gnarled olive trees grew here, their branches reaching like arthritic fingers towards the sky, and water trickled from moss-strewn rocks. The air felt… clean, different. The oppressive weight we'd carried inside Cronos seemed to lessen, just a fraction, here on the mountain Zeus had called his first home.
Healing was a slow, strange process. Our divine forms, stunted and starved of true cosmic energy for so long, began to mend. The weariness that had settled deep in our immortal bones began to recede, replaced by a trickle, then a flow, of returning power. Demeter wept openly, her hands buried in the rich soil, as if reconnecting with the very essence of her being. Poseidon, restless as ever, explored the grove with the boundless energy of a newly uncaged storm, his occasional shouts of exuberant power echoing like distant thunder. Hades remained in the shadows of the ancient trees, his silver eyes slowly losing some of their haunted bleakness, replaced by a sharp, watchful intensity. Hera, ever conscious of her dignity, began to groom herself, her movements precise, her gaze already taking in the measure of this new, temporary domain. Hestia, blessedly, simply was, her gentle light a steady anchor in the unfamiliar brilliance of the world.
For me, Telos, this respite was a revelation. My mind, used to the predictable dark and the limited inputs of our prison, fought to make sense of the sudden, overwhelming cascade of information from the living world. It wasn't a neat text to be read; it was a raw, untamed flood. I found myself focusing on the smallest things – the way a specific leaf unfurled, the precise hue of a beetle's shell, the feel of the mountain's ancient stone beneath my fingers – trying to anchor my thoughts, to begin building a new internal framework for this reality. My internal Achieves, the drive to know and catalogue, was finding purchase on a universe of new data.
After several days – a period Rhea insisted upon for our initial recovery – she gathered us. Zeus was there, of course, his youthful energy a stark contrast to our own ancient weariness, yet his eyes held the command of a seasoned leader. We, his elder siblings, rescued by his hand, now looked to him. It was a strange, unsettling dynamic.
The council, if it could be called that, took place in a sun-dappled clearing. Rhea sat at the head, her presence a mixture of maternal concern and queenly gravity. "Cronos will not have taken his… discomfort lightly," Zeus began, his voice resonant with power, dispensing with pleasantries. "He knows now that not all his children were consumed. He knows there is a challenge to his throne. The Titans will rally to him. We are few."
"So, six of us spat out," Hades observed, his voice like dry leaves skittering on stone. "Plus you. That makes seven against Father and all his kin who still draw breath." The usual bitterness was there, but sharpened now by a stark accounting of their chances.
"And seven will be enough, brother," Zeus cut in, his eyes hard. "If we strike where they are weakest, and bring new strength to our side."
Hera straightened. "And what allies do you propose, youngest brother? The world has cowered under Cronos for an age. Who would dare defy him openly?" Her tone was challenging, yet there was also an undercurrent of keen interest. She was already positioning herself, I noted, not merely as a grateful rescued sibling, but as a voice in this new, emerging power structure. The distaste I felt for her was a familiar companion, sharpened now by her immediate, almost instinctive grasp for influence.
"Our uncles," Zeus stated, his eyes sweeping over us. "The Elder Cyclopes – Brontes, Steropes, Arges. And the Hekatonkheires – Kottos, Briareos, Gyges. Our father, in his wisdom," – a faint, ironic smile touched his lips – "imprisoned them in Tartarus, fearing their strength. Their strength is now what we need."
A murmur ran through my siblings. I, of course, knew this part of the myth. The forgers of Zeus's lightning bolts, Poseidon's trident, Hades' helm of darkness. The hundred-handed ones whose might could shift the tide of any battle. My internal Achieves instantly cross-referenced this with my remembered narratives, confirming the strategic necessity.
"Tartarus?" Demeter whispered, her face paling. "That is a pit of despair from which none return."
"They will return," Zeus said, his confidence absolute. "For they will have a cause. And they will have us to free them." He looked directly at Poseidon, then Hades, then me. "Their skills, their power, will arm us. Will give us the weapons we need to face our father and his kin."
Poseidon's eyes lit up with a fierce, almost savage, joy. "Weapons? A chance to strike back, not just push against fleshy walls?" The thought clearly invigorated him.
Hades was more circumspect. "Freeing beings from Tartarus is no small feat, even for gods. Our father will have it well guarded."
"Indeed," Zeus acknowledged. "Which is why we must be swift, and clever." He then looked at me, his gaze lingering. "Telos. You are quiet. You observe. Your domain, Mother tells me, touches upon knowledge, upon truth. What insights do your observations offer us in this?"
It was a direct address, unexpected. All eyes turned to me. My siblings, who had known me only as a fellow prisoner, now looked at me with a new curiosity, tinged with Zeus's implied authority. This was a test, a challenge. My domain of Achieves was not about grand pronouncements, but about understanding. My domain of Truth was not about blunt revelation, but about discerning the core of things.
I chose my words carefully. "The structure of any prison, even Tartarus, is an achievement of power and will. Understanding that structure, the intent behind it, is the first step to unmaking it. Cronos's fear, as Hades noted, is predictable. His methods of control, his ways of binding power he fears, likely follow similar patterns. What he used to bind our uncles may share similarities with how he sought to… contain us." I paused. "The key will be an achievement of leverage – finding the point where the least force unbinds the greatest restraint."
A silence followed. My words were abstract, yet they hinted at a methodology, a way of thinking that was different from Poseidon's direct force or Hera's grand pronouncements. Zeus watched me, a thoughtful expression on his face. Hestia offered a small, almost imperceptible nod. Hera's gaze was sharp, analytical, perhaps even a little dismissive of such philosophical notions in the face of war.
"Leverage," Zeus mused. "A worthy consideration." He then straightened, his earlier confidence returning, magnified. "Then it is decided. Our first great act of this war, our first true stroke against our father, will be to descend into the darkness and bring forth our lost kin. We will gain our weapons, and we will gain allies whose fury against Cronos matches our own."
The council was over. A path was set. We were no longer just survivors; we were now conspirators, rebels, the nascent seeds of a new order. As my siblings began to speak amongst themselves, their voices a mixture of trepidation and a fierce, newfound resolve, I retreated slightly, my mind already working. Freeing the Cyclopes and Hekatonkheires. This was the next great achievement laid before us, a task fraught with peril, yet essential. The weight of knowing the myths was now compounded by the weight of living them, of shaping them. The respite of Ida was ending; the storm was truly about to break.