Mount Olympus»»»»»»»
A multitude of people argued without reason, discussing matters that would only benefit themselves, without caring for the good of others. Some were more deeply involved in the arguments than others, while those who did not care simply ignored the replies, sinking into their own thoughts or doing anything better than wasting time in that place arguing for nothing. In the end, everyone would lose, and only one would win... as had always happened.
A young man, bored of the situation, began doing the first thing that came to mind, not even bothering with the others anymore. Tired of always being stuck in the same situation, he rose from his seat, which looked like a rather ornate throne, and started walking around the room. His gaze fell on a sculpture along the wall, painted since the beginning of time... or at least that was what he believed.
The sculpture showed the past, displaying chronological images of important moments in history, such as the very creation of the temple where they were now gathered, or the final battle against powerful enemies. In every scene, the same figure could be seen: a man holding a lightning bolt aloft in victory. His features were impossible to make out, only his silhouette could be seen, because it was completely black, yet everyone knew who that man was.
He had never paid attention to the sculpture before. All this time he had preferred doing other things, and sometimes he had even joined the arguments just to kill his boredom. But this time, the sculpture seemed to call to him differently. He examined each event painted upon it, from the most recent to the oldest. At times, a proud smile appeared on his face, as if he himself had made those events possible.
The further back he went, even into moments he had never witnessed, the more he remembered stories told to him as a child about the scenes now painted on the wall. Stretching out his hand, he began to trace the drawings with his fingers as he continued onward, until he reached the very beginning.
The great war that had given rise to the new era, the beginning of all the world now knew. Before that, there had only been rumors, or rather myths, since nearly all those who had been present then had become legends. Yet it had always seemed strange to him.
Whenever he asked about it, no one wanted to speak of it, and those who dared were quickly silenced, as though no one wanted what had happened back then to ever be known. That had always confused him. He had heard myths before, but these stories were told as though the speaker truly believed them, as if they were not lies at all.
When he reached the end, he noticed that one part of the mural was damaged, scarred by cuts and even burns, gods knew by what. Part of it was hidden behind a thin red curtain that decorated the entrance to the hall where they were gathered.
He stepped closer to that section and saw that the cuts seemed as old as the sculpture itself, as though someone had tried to erase that part and failed. The burn marks, however, looked more recent... or so it seemed.
Slowly, he began to pull aside the soft curtain, uncertain whether he truly wished to see what lay hidden there. He did not want to end up like the sculpture, burned or slashed by whoever had done it, but his curiosity was greater than his fear.
As he drew the curtain back, what he saw only confused him further rather than giving him answers. There was a man surrounded by wind, standing above what looked like a golden chest, raising a white sword that he assumed was a katana. His interest in foreign cultures had taught him about such a weapon, and lately it had caught his attention. He could not tear his eyes away from the strange image.
Why did that chest seem so important? Who could have possessed a katana in that era? Why did the wind surround him? And most importantly, why had this section of the sculpture been damaged? This was the beginning of the mural, the beginning of the current era. He could not understand why something so important would be defaced, much less who the figure was meant to represent. Even after trying to remember everything he had ever heard about that age, he could not recall anyone who wielded a katana. But if this figure had truly stood at the beginning of it all, why hide him?
His curiosity could no longer be contained, and he finally asked aloud.
"Who is he?" he asked, pointing toward the damaged section of the sculpture, because it was clear what it was trying to show.
The hall fell silent. His words had carried clearly, making everyone aware that someone had spoken, but the moment they saw where he was pointing, the tension in the room became obvious. For a long moment, no one said anything. They did not know what to do or what to say. They did not know whether to lie or tell the truth. Who was he? The answer itself was easy. The problem was daring to speak his name.
At last, one of those present, seeing that no one else had the courage, rose from her seat beside a great bonfire and tried to answer.
"He is Da—"
"SILENCE!" one of the men in the hall roared in a hoarse voice.
The man's glare shot toward the woman who had tried to answer, as though threatening her should she continue. Yet she did not waver for even a moment and held his gaze. The man, who held a lightning bolt in his left hand, sat down once more, forcing himself to calm down after the outburst.
"Forget it. He is not important," the man said.
The moment those words left his mouth, a violent gust of wind burst into the hall, sending the curtains thrashing wildly and feeding the flames of the bonfire. The tension in the room only deepened for some, while others, seemingly detached from the situation, looked on in confusion.
The one who had asked the question raised an eyebrow, bewildered by everything that had just happened. If he was not important, then why react like that? Not only him, but several others present also chose not to involve themselves in what was clearly a dangerous matter. They tried to forget it and moved away from the carved wall, though not before sparing it one final glance.
He returned to his throne, his mind crowded with questions. He looked toward the woman who had sat back down near the bonfire and thought of the few words she had managed to say.
He is Da... Da what? DATROSKI (hahahahah)
Why did that name feel familiar? It was like a distant memory... a very distant one. Then one of the stories he had heard in childhood surfaced in his mind:
When the brothers were freed from the stomach of Kronos, they all began to retreat, for they were at a disadvantage and knew nothing of the world around them... all except one. Damon, the eldest brother, the one who stayed behind to hold back Atlas and Kronos alone while his brothers fled.
One of the many stories his mother had told him returned to him at exactly that moment, and as soon as the name fully formed in his mind, his eyes widened.
Damon.
He had heard that name before, in the songs of bards, from nymphs, and even from ancient gods and lesser goddesses as old as history itself. All his life he had thought those were merely children's tales, stories denied by some of the Olympian gods.
He turned his gaze toward the woman by the bonfire. Sadness was visible on her face, as though she longed for something.
I'll have to speak with her later, he thought.
At last, he could not help but look once more toward the sculpture and saw how the curtain, stirred by the wind, covered and uncovered the image of the man again and again.
Did he really exist?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>.
Thank you for reading
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