Liquid seeps into the soil.
The clash of metal ringing all around.
Red, a mortal’s plight.
To live such a short life.
Oh, Warrior given a moment of glory,
Of spilled blood for the Gods' need for gore.
Their armor dented,
But their hearts race free.
Free, but they're bound in chains.
A pretty golden chain for thee.
Scars among their bodies,
Proudly displayed battles won.
The battle a stage to be viewed,
Laughter and cheers or boos and jeers.
An arena of entertainment!
Gods clap, thunder follows.
Gods cry, rain falls.
Gods smile, and the sun sears.
Gods! Gods! Gods!
They must cheer.
Blood offered for Gods.
The immortal’s lips stained red.
Is it blood or wine?
The gods love it all the same.
Only in death can they be free,
But even death is ruled by immortal beings.
Thus, mortals left forever at the Gods' whims.
Lesser, worthless, insignificant things.
A bug to be crushed under their heels.
Their lives and deaths sacrificed to the Gods!
To bow before their superiors!
Kissing the dirt! It’s where they belong!
Grovel before the Gods’ magnificence!
Mortal’s eyes don’t deserve such beauty!
Eyes burned from their sockets, if they ever saw.
For Gods’ true sights are monstrous beings.
“A God is such a magnificent being.” A cloaked person hums, their voice rasped like a snake’s. Their voice deep yet soft, somehow echoing in the dark tunnels.
“You can’t run, for a God is all-seeing.” Their words lowered in pitch towards the end. The words lifting through the air like a discordant melody.
“You're lucky if a God notices thee,” the voice raised to a high mocking tone. Laughter heard in the shadows following the cloaked individual.
“But your luck runs foul in three,” the voice turns somber, a spool of thread weighing down their scarred hands.
“Oh great Gods, I pray for your blessing!” The voice laughs, the thread turning red in the dim light of the tunnel.
“Oh, blessed! A child of Gods through their caressing.” The voice low and dark, their eyes glowing bright in the darkness. Their body shaking with barely concealed rage. Shouts of anger heard behind them.
“The child sent off to war,” the voice shakes, tears building in their eyes. Great blonde hair falling from their hood as they bow their head. But still, they move forward steadily and with purpose. The marching of soldiers stomping behind.
“Hoping for the child to be one Gods’ adore!” The voice breaks, and the string tightens in their hands. Winds are felt in the tunnels, the damp air becoming heated. Sad whispers heard in the wind.
“The child brought before the Gods,” the voice now has an anticipating edge to them, as the dark tunnels light up at the end. The voices behind quieting down to a humm, the tension savored like the build-up before a storm.
“Now a man to settle the odds,” the voice whispers dark and menacing, a jeer at the end of his song as he reaches the end of the tunnel. The man’s voice echoing down the tunnel, but quiet to the open air.
The thread carried in his hands now bright and golden in the bright light of the sun, and it splits and weaves onwards to the giant figures beyond the person.
The person sighs and pulls his hood down as he faces the giants, the gods. The thread attaching to each of their chests where a heart would be if they had such things.
The person's hair shines golden as the string and is accompanied with the bluest eyes, the color of sapphires. The man’s rage was shown clearly to the world. A young, pretty teenage face sneers.
The gods, however, don’t notice the speck of a person entering their great home. The home of the gods, Olympus, that casts a great shadow over the insignificant lives down below.
The person's knuckles turn white, drawing great shining blood from his hands. Red and gold, now marring the great thread. He breathes in, and he yanks the thread down, and down go the gods from their false thrones. Groveling before the person’s feet.
The person, the demigod, smiles and sings, “Now it’s time for the gods to bleed.”
“Son!” A god yells in shock, their voice portraying a mask of hurt, but the demigod knows better. Gods don’t feel. Gods are monstrous beings disguised in mortal skin. Monsters who play good and just, but still kill children all the same as the monstersdemigods fought in vain. The monsters demigods, children, had to fight to reach camp just to survive.
Survive only to live to fight in the gods’ name. Only living for their parents' glory. Then, the so-called good gods, their parents, just watched as their children reached their demise. Laughing at especially gory deaths, sneering at ones who never gave them glory. Forgetting all their children just the same regardless.
Still, the gods don their great beautiful masks again and again. They seduce and rape mortals just to leave them with children in a broken home. Homes always left yearning for the gods’ addicting touch, a mortal never knowing how to go back to the way they lived before. The gods felt like destruction, and they felt like creation, they felt like everything . The gods gave the mortals a taste of divinity to ensure that the mortals were theirs (forever a possession to the gods). That their mortals would remember them, worship them, in every possible way.
Children loved by mortals because of their reminder of the gods’ divinity, but the children would always fall short - living to an impossible standard unless they were lucky enough to be blessed. Blessed to forever be on the run from monsters and always used for Gods' quests.
Children abused because a parent decides to take their anguish out on children who resemble the rapists who hurt them.
Children abandoned because a mortal couldn’t bear to even be near an ounce of divinity again.
It’s all much the same because of the gods’ left mortals broken after they had their ways.
The Gods, though, couldn't possibly be evil, the children naively believed. The Gods were good. They were just. The Gods were their parents. The mortals were their parents, too.
It’s a game for the Gods. They’ve played it so many times before. The Gods gave a moment of attention to their children. A smile behind a sneer. A laugh behind a gag.
Emotions, a plaything, for the Gods to toss around when they need to. Emotions used to manipulate their children into loving, into worshiping, their parents.
To be the most entertaining. Children into soldiers. Sibling fighting against sibling, for Gods don’t pay attention to more than one demigod.
The Gods were everything for the demigods. These were the demigods’ other parents, so surely, they were better than the mortal ones. The Gods had to be because the demigods had no one else to give them a chance. The demigods were too different to fit in with the mortals, so surely the immortals would appreciate them, would love them.
All the demigods had to do was fight and win. It’s what they were born forced to do. To receive just a word from their parents, a moment of attention. Why are their hands stained red?!
But why doesn’t it feel like enough? Why do the demigods still feel so alone? More of their friends are dying. More of their siblings are dead. Where did they go? Are they finally free?
A pyre burning. Another child is gone. Who will be next? Does it even matter? The gods their parents never would come.
No more, the person in the cloak vowed. No more children to be forced to be the gods’ child soldiers. No more children to be left, not knowing what a parent’s love is.
Gods don’t deserve their worship and love. They never did.
The demigods are done serving the gods. No longer will they be tossed around for the gods’ whims.
And so, with these gods at their feet, the neglected children, turned child soldiers for these so-called gods were finally ready to end their immortal ruling. The gods, no the monstrous beings, at their feet tried to plead for their useless lives, but the demigods laughed as they descended on them. Mercy, the demigods said, as if the gods ever done such a thing for them.
No, and screams filled the air, and gold has never looked so beautiful.
