Hollow Jars: The Pantheon

Hey.

Look, you don’t want to read my story.

I’m no hero.

Can’t be sure I’ve ever done a lick of good in my life.

I’m not even good with words.

You won’t find any epic poetry here.

But if you’re staying anyway, you might as well get cozy.

All my life, I’ve been described as “angry”. I wasn’t smart like Athena, or hot like Apollo, or protective like Artemis, or helpful like Eileithyia. I was just “The Angry One.”

Was I angry?

Absolutely.

Still am.

Sometimes I wonder if I might not be such an angry guy. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m just scared. Then I remember that’s not allowed. I’m the god of courage after all. I’m meant to be strong.

Then again, being scared is why I got trapped in that stupid jar, instead of being out there in the stupid world. Fighting stupid battles and spilling stupid blood.

I guess that’s where we’ll start.

The day I realized no one would save me.

The day I realized no one cared.

.--. -... / . ... ... / ..-. .... ..-.

Sitting with my back to the bronze of the jar, knees curled up to my chest, I had about an inch of empty space. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. And I was back.

.--. / ...- .--. -.. .-- .--. .... .... .--. —

“Who’s gonna stop us?” The giant called to the sky.

No one answered.

“Perhaps the Earthshaker will level the mountains?”

The mountains remained.

“Maybe Zeus will strike us down.”

I saw no lightning.

“Will the wise Athena use her legendary wits to defeat us?”

Athena was nowhere to be seen.

Typical.

I catapulted out of the trees, landing at Ephialtes’ feet. I met his eyes.

“Shut up and go back to Tartarus.”

Ephialtes gave me an amused look. Otus looked terrified.

“Oh, a runt like you wants to try their hand?”

“A runt?”

To be fair, both of the giants stood at least ten feet taller that even Athena. I changed my height to match them.

“Terrifying.” Ephialtes’ voice dripped with sarcasm.

I caused a spark to catch in my eyes, and they blazed with my typical fire.

Otus winced.

“This is your last chance to give up. You could go home. Find a lady, settle down, start a family,” I twirled my spear, feeling theatric, “Or you could fight me, either way you end up in Tartarus.”

Ephiates laughed.

A grim smile reached my lips.

.. --- -. ...- / .-- .--- / .- ...- .--. / ..- --- -.

I could have defeated those giants. I could have. I could have ripped their heads from their shoulders and spilled their blood over the mountains. Maybe I would have made a river from that blood, one that always flowed red. A reminder of the brutalities of war.

I could have.

But I didn’t.

Maybe it was because they were so young. Only nine. Practically infants.

There are certain horrors you do not commit.

Maybe it was that look of pure terror in Otus’ eyes.

I’m not sure.

All I’m sure of, is that if I could relive that moment–if I could go back–I would ram that spear through his skull. I would spill his brains over the stones. I would–

“How you holding up in there, hun?”

Startled, I accidentally changed size, banging my head against the the top of the jar. I groaned.

“You alright?”

“Not really. Who are you?”

“I’m Otus and Ephi’s mum.”

“Ah.”

“Say, kid, are you immortal?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Well, if you weren’t immortal, you would have starved to death, or died of thirst.”

Now that she mentioned it, I realized she was right. I was very hungry. Something I think people forget about us Greek gods, is that we may not die, but we still feel pain. We may not starve, but we still feel hunger. We may not perish for lack of water, but we still thirst. All we do is feel.

And it means nothing, because there is no consequence to it.

“How long have I been in here?”

“About twelve and a half months, I’d say.”

“Oh.”

I’d been trapped in the jar for twelve months.

Twelve months.

Someone should have rescued me months ago. One of the gods. They could have broken the jar. They’re all strong enough.

But no one did.

Knowing them, I should never have expected them to.

But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I did.

Hope is a funny thing.

It slithers in to your heart, like one of Athena’s serpents, but instead of whispering wisdom, it whispers idiocy. It tricks you. Tricks you into thinking you’re enough. Tricks you into thinking people care. Hope pretends to give you life, but really it sucks your life away. It falls through. Every time.

Every time.

For once, I let myself cry.

The giantess–at least I think she was a giantess, though you could never know for sure with the mothers of monsters–must have heard my pitiful sniffles.

“It’ll be alright love, I’m sure someone will come for you soon.”

I was shaking now. By the blood of the fallen, I was shaking.

“I–”

“Someone will come. I refuse to believe that you aren’t loved.”

I’m not sure, but I think she left after that.

I wished she hadn’t.

-.. .-- -.. ... ... ---

By now, I’ve wished for many things. I’ve wished that my father hadn’t disowned me. I’ve wished that the only woman I’ve ever truly loved wasn’t already married. I’ve wished for peace in the midst of war. I’ve wished that the burden of my domain be lifted from my shoulders. I’ve wished to rule. I’ve wished for justice.

Not once have my wishes been granted.

Maybe that’s for the best.

I am not a hero.

My wishes are not all noble.

I lack the courage to kill.

I lack the courage to spare.

I lack the courage to die.

I lack the courage to live.

Which, for a god of courage, is not good.

It’s worse than not good.

It’s terrible.

Then again, so is war.

And that is what I am.

I am Ares, god of war.