Then there came the day when Olympus fell. . .
Like the other pantheons before them,
the Olympians slowly dropped before the
onslaught.
Dionysus wept, no more drinking and
merriment, grand bachhanalias replaced with
an orgy of destruction.
Their time was over.
The dark one looked around and smiled.
He surveyed the carnage slowly, taking
in the devastation like a breath of fresh air.
Moments earlier, he had held the severed
head of Zeus in his hands. The head had
cursed him violently and spat in his eyes,
before being ground into pulp between the
massive hands of the dark one.
Dionysus still wept, the dark one’s last
atrocity would be a living testament to his power,
for Dionysus would now be forever known
as the weeping god.
Now. . .
Thunder rumbled distantly in the grey skies as the rains fell lightly and wind howled through the trees. Aeolus, dark skinned god of the winds, took no notice. His gaze fell over the remains of the once proud home of the gods, Mount Olympus.
Marble columns and bronze statues shattered and broken. Pavement cracked and overgrown with weeds. Rivers and waterfalls where once sprites and naiads played, now run dry and empty. Once beautiful fields, now barren, lifeless. Aeolus wept at the desecration and ruin.
Who could have done this? He thought to himself. Who is the murderer of the Gods? Aeolus obsession grew by the day. Since the events of the Antarctic War, the Pantheon had kept a surprisingly low profile. They were not however, inactive. Their search for the being known only as "The Dark One," and their quest to restore life and glory to Olympus continued.
Aeolus looked up, as rain and sweat poured down his proud face. In vine, the truth. It was so simple, could it be? "Dionysus. .." He muttered under his breath. He turned and looked behind him.
Standing under a cracked archway, well out of the rain, in a resplendant violet toga, with golden rings encircling her smooth arms and legs, her lustrous black hair pinned up behind her head, and drinking from a golden goblet, stood Medea. Sorceress member of the Pantheon. Former wife of Jason, spurned by him, and now barely tolerant of men at all. Medea, who had joined Aeolus' group, for purposes of her own, barely hiding her contempt for Aeolus' leadership, or the majority of her teammates. Medea, who held several objects of legend in her home, the Argo, the Golden Fleece, and yes, the goblet she now drank from, the never empty cup of Dionysus.
"You had the same thought I did." Aeolus said, looking in her eyes and seeing what was there. For the first time since she'd joined he saw no trace of hate or envy, merely pity.
"Yes. Dionysus was there. He is still alive, although the legends say he is mad. He must know who the Dark One is." She reached out, handing Aeolus the cup.
Taking it in his hands, he lifted it to his lips and drank down several gulps of the wine of the gods. Lowering the cup, he smiled. There was a gleam in his eyes Medea had not seen before. "Summon the others. We're going to talk to Dionysus." Lightning flashed as thunder rumbled in the distance.
*************************
Earth.
Mars Munitions
Detroit, Michigan, USA
The office of Alexander Mars, CEO. The end of the day, for Alexander Mars. Significant financial contributions had been made to both major political parties, ensuring that no matter who won the upcoming election, Mars Munitions would continue to have excellent working relations with the US Government.
Under the table, they had also contributed significantly to several terrorist organizations throughout many countries in the world, including factions of the MBL, the Left Hand, and various other extremist groups of varying political beliefs and ethnic backgrounds. For Alexander Mars, conflict was life.
Standing up from behind his desk, he brushed down and straightened out his suit and adjusted his red silk tie. Walking over to the bookshelf on his wall, he pulled out a rather worn copy of Bulfinch's Mythology, allowing the bookcase to swing open, revealing a small walk-in closet.
Entering the closet, he walked all the way to the back. Standing there, he looked at a very old and battle scarred set of golden and red armor, stained and flaked with dried blood of countless opponents from countless battlefields.
THey're coming. At long last, they're coming. He said to himself. And when they arrive, it shall not be Alexander Mars, mortal CEO who greets them. But Ares, God of War!
