Far away from Olympus, across wind-scoured cliffs and wastelands soaked in silence, there existed a land the gods no longer tread—a canyon carved by wrath and fire, where thunder never ceased rumbling deep below the crust of the world.
It was here, bound upon the jagged rock of a mountain, that Protheus remained chained.
Years passed. Centuries, even. And still he endured.
Each morning, the eagle ca—its wings blotting out the sun as it descended with shrill cries to tear at his divine flesh.
Each evening, the Titan regenerated, pain-wreathed and defiant.
His chains were divine and old, forged by Hephaestus himself at Zeus's order—so ancient now they shimred with ti-forged rust and power.
But on this day, before the eagle could arrive, two goddesses approached.
The winds parted. The skies grew montarily clear.
From the horizon walked Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, her eyes sharp with thought and her steps brimming with purpose.
She wore no armor, only her usual flowing robes and a silvery cloak that flickered with starlight—an illusion that hid the polished bronze plate beneath.
At her side was Themis, the embodint of divine law, walking tall and serene, her presence balanced and unshaken despite the rising dread in the world.
They walked in silence for so ti—until Athena broke it.
"I didn't expect you to be thinking the sa as aunt Themis," she said, glancing at the barren rocks. "The others only think of revenge, they haven't even thought of asking for advice. How dumb they are."
Themis offered her a faint smile.
"I'm not like those brutes, I know how to prepare for war, and right now we need any knowledge from the Titan of Forethought."
Athena nodded, "Yes, when it cos to prophecies, only the Fates can claim to be better than him...but those three only serves Lord Hades, so yeah, we can't really ask them for help."
"True. There's a certain irony in Protheus. He knows how to shape what seems hopeless. He did it with n. Perhaps he can do it with gods."
Athena huffed softly.
"Speaking of n," she said, her expression warming slightly, "I guided one recently. A mortal. Just a child when I found him—barely knew how to hold a spear. But now? He slew a chiric beast with only a shattered sword and his wit."
Themis gave a nostalgic chuckle. "You always had a soft spot for mortals."
Athena waved her finger at her, "Not mortals, heroes. And you can bla Herios for that, aunty. He ruined . He was the one who made obsessed with heroes."
Themis chuckled, "Seems like you're quite fond of him."
"Absolutely!" Athena smiled softly, "If he didn't die. I would've made him my husband. Even now, I'm still searching for his reincarnation in the mortal world."
Themis blinked, surprised. She didn't think that Athena would be this obsessed over a mortal man.
"Besides! Triumphing over impossible odds, shining brighter than any star, carving your na in history...those kinds of people, are really just the best aren't they?" Athena exclaid, eyes brightening like stars.
The elder goddess gave a slow nod, her golden eyes reflecting the clouded sky.
"How about you aunt?" Athen turned towards her, "Have you had any stories to tell? I read from a book that you sided with father in the Titanomachy."
Themis humd.
"Once, long ago… before Olympus was even thought of," she murmured, "Protheus, Epitheus, and I fought beside each other. Against Atlas. You would've liked it—he thought he could win by crushing everything. We proved him wrong."
Athena raised an eyebrow. "Wow, so you fought in the frontline?"
"Not often," Themis replied, "but when I do, it is to bring order, not ruin."
The conversation died as they arrived.
Before them, across the broken cliffs of the mountain, the chained Titan lay—Protheus, bound to stone by shackles older than any city.
His body was ragged and covered in old scars, his form lean and worn—but his eyes sparkled with undimd mirth.
He looked up as they approached and gave a crooked grin.
"Ladies!" he said, voice echoing against the canyon walls. "Don't tell Olympus has finally agreed to let down. I knew this century was lucky!"
Themis smiled faintly. "We're not here to free you, old friend."
"Pity," he said with mock sadness. "I even prepared a freedom speech."
Athena stepped forward, arms folded, eyeing him closely. "You're still joking, even now?"
Protheus laughed, his chains rattling with the movent. "If I didn't joke, I'd go mad. Well… madder. Besides, your faces were so serious. I heard an explosion coming from Olympus, was there a gas leak?"
Neither goddess responded.
Protheus pouted theatrically. "No laughs? Really? Oh wait, do you two know what a gas leak is? No? Wow, uncultured. Co on, sli."
They didn't.
"You two are no fun. I used to be considered charming, you know."
Themis stepped closer, voice firm now. "We ca for knowledge, Protheus. The giants have attacked. War is coming, and we need your insight."
Protheus tilted his head, his playful tone quieting, though the smile didn't fully leave. "Giants, huh? Took them long enough."
Athena's eyes narrowed. "You knew?"
"Darling, of course I did. I hear the birds. I hear the earth groan in its sleep. And I saw your stars start shaking weeks ago."
"Then speak," Themis urged. "What must Olympus do?"
Protheus sighed, a long breath that carried the weariness of centuries.
"I don't think those guys will like it," he said.
"We're past the point of liking anything." Said Athena.
He looked up at them, the wind tugging at his hair, his chains creaking like old bones.
"Heroes. That's what you need. Not armies. Not prophecies. But Mortal heroes. Especially demigods. They are the key."
Athena exchanged a glance with Themis, confusion and concern flickering in both their eyes.
"How." Themis asked, voice sharper.
Protheus grinned—but now it was that old, sly grin, the one that had unsettled Zeus long ago.
"Now, now," he said teasingly. "I've given you a torch. Do you want the whole bonfire, too?"
He stretched his arms, as if yawning despite his imprisonnt.
"I think my visit hours are over."
Athena stepped forward, fists clenched. "Protheus—"
But Themis touched her shoulder.
"Leave it," she said quietly. "He's said enough."
They turned to go.
"Oh, co now!" Protheus called after them, pouting like a child denied a sweet. "You're not even going to say goodbye? No farewell? No 'we'll bring you nectar next ti'?"
Silence.
They didn't turn back.
Protheus exhaled and leaned his head against the cold stone, staring at the vast grey sky.
"Hmph," he murmured. "Gods. No sense of humor."
Far above, the eagle shrieked.
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