Date: The Age of Cronos – Several Years Imprisoned
The 'turnings' within our father's belly became a blur of oppressive sameness. Years, by any mortal reckoning, must have passed, measured only by the slow maturation of my divine form from a young child to something approaching adolescence, and by the subtle deepening of the lines of endurance or bitterness on the faces of my siblings. We had routines, of a sort. Periods of restless movement when Cronos was active, huddling together during the violent spasms of his digestive processes. Periods of weary stillness when he slept, if the lessening of the internal earthquakes could be called sleep.
I often stayed near Hestia. She rarely spoke, but her quiet presence was a steady thing in the chaos. There was a strength in her stillness that I learned from, a way of simply being that pushed back the dread without a word. Sometimes, she would look at me, her ancient eyes holding a question, or perhaps just a deep, sorrowful understanding, and I would feel that spark of Alex within me ache with the knowledge I couldn't share.
With Hades, it was different. We argued, mostly, or exchanged terse observations. But I preferred his bleak honesty to false hope. He didn't try to soften the edges of our reality, and there was a strange kind of relief in that. His corner was the darkest, his pronouncements equally so. "He stirs more than usual," he might comment, his voice a dry rasp, his silver eyes fixed on some imperceptible shift in our fleshy prison. "Expect discomfort."
Demeter carried her sadness quietly. I'd see her tracing lines on the floor with a slender finger, patterns that almost looked like seeds or roots, before the prison's next lurch would erase them. It was a constant, quiet ritual of loss. Her longing for the world of growth, of seasons, was a palpable thing, a wound that never healed.
Hera, however, grew more… distinct. Her inherent regality solidified, often manifesting as an impatient disapproval of our surroundings, our helplessness. "Must you slump so, Hades?" she'd snap, her voice sharp. "We are gods, not… refuse." She'd try to direct us, to create 'zones' for conversation or rest, an attempt to impose her will on the chaotic, organic prison. It rarely worked, and her frustration would then simmer, a tightly controlled fire. I often found myself the target of her critical gaze, my quiet observation mistaken for indolence, perhaps. Or maybe she sensed something different in me, something she couldn't categorize and therefore distrusted.
My own work continued in the archive of my mind. Every detail I could fix in my mind – the way the fleshy walls pulsed, the exact rhythm of Hades' sigh, the subtle shift in the dim light before a tremor – felt like a small piece of solid ground. Understanding anything here was a victory, the only kind I could manage. I mapped the subtle currents of divine energy that still flowed within Cronos, the way they were distorted and consumed. I analyzed the patterns of his internal movements, trying to predict the shifts. I studied my siblings, their powers, their coping mechanisms, their burgeoning godhood fighting against suppression. This was my unseen effort: the constant gathering of understanding.
Zeus. The name echoed in my memory from that other life. Our savior, the stories said. A heavy secret to carry. Did the others feel it too, some faint tremor of approaching change, or was it just my own desperate wish? Hestia sometimes looked out into the gloom with an expression of distant, almost painful hope. Or perhaps it was just my own desperate interpretation.
One 'turning,' longer and more violent than most, heralded a change. A profound unease settled over our prison. The internal rumblings of Cronos grew erratic, his divine energy churning with a new, sharper anxiety that even we, deep within, could feel. Hades was the first to voice it.
"He's agitated," he stated, his usual cynicism tinged with a rare note of… anticipation? Or perhaps just a different flavor of dread. "More than usual. He has… consumed again."
A ripple of horror and grim understanding passed through us. Another one. Another sibling condemned to this living tomb. Rhea's grief must be a fresh, raw wound in the world above.
The wait was agonizing. We felt the familiar, grotesque processes begin, the violent contractions, the sickening lurch of our prison. Hestia's light flickered, her usual calm disturbed. Demeter flinched, her hands knotting together. Hera's jaw tightened, her eyes like ice chips. Even Hades turned his head sharply towards the passage we all knew led to our father's throat, his usual stillness replaced by a grim attention.
Then, he was there. Not placed gently, but thrown among us, a small, struggling heap. A small, sputtering form, slick and gasping, landed with a thud not far from where I sat. The newcomer was male, his infant cries thin but filled with a wild, untamed energy that felt different from our own. There was a raw, elemental quality to him, like the scent of a storm-tossed sea, a restless, churning power already palpable.
Poseidon. My younger brother.
He was terrified, of course, his tiny limbs flailing, his cries echoing in the vast, fleshy chamber. But even through the fear, that raw, untamed divine essence was unmistakable.
Hestia was the first to move, her light extending like a comforting hand. "Hush now, little one," she murmured, her voice impossibly gentle. "You are not alone."
The rest of us watched, a mixture of pity, resignation, and a grim sort of welcome. Another soul to share the darkness. Demeter's face softened with a maternal sorrow. Hera observed him with that familiar, appraising intensity, perhaps already calculating his potential. Hades merely grunted, a sound that could have meant anything from disgust to a weary acceptance.
I, Telos, looked at this new brother, the sixth of us to be devoured, and felt a fresh wave of despair, but also a renewed sense of purpose. Six. The number felt significant, a horrifying tally. My mental archive expanded, a new entry logged, a new personality to understand, a new piece in the dreadful puzzle of our father's tyranny. The weight of what I knew – that one more was destined to escape, to one day challenge this – felt heavier than ever. Our numbers were growing, but so too, it seemed, was the hopelessness of our confinement.