Chapter 1: The Last Son of Ares
Olympus, the eternal abode of the Pantheon. These ancient, immortal beings, cloaked in immeasurable power and strength, have been the subject of countless tales, myths, and legends for millennia. Humans have long believed them to reside in the heavens, woven into the fabric of our collective imagination.
But in truth, the Pantheon and their brethren of Greek mythology are not mere figments of human storytelling. They are members of a race known as the Ethaarans—powerful non-corporeal entities, existing beyond the confines of our physical dimension. Their presence in our world is made possible only by being willed into our existence through the fervent belief, worship, and prayers of mortal beings.
For eons, the Ethaarans have traversed between the physical and non-corporeal realms, seeking out primitive civilizations to assert their dominion over as gods. Their very existence hinges upon the devotion of those they rule over, as they strive to ascend to godhood once more.
Thus, the Pantheon set their sights upon the planet Gaia, known to its inhabitants as Earth, where they reigned over humanity from the dawn of civilization until the mid-800s AD.
But as the centuries passed, the fervor of human worship waned, eclipsed by the rise of new religions and beliefs. By the 800s of Earth's history, the once-potent faith in the Pantheon had dwindled to mere whispers, fading into obscurity with each passing generation.
Now, aboard the great Ethaaran vessel Olympus, the last of their kind—a Half-Human, Half-Ethaaran being—was born, marking the end of an era and the beginning of a new chapter in the saga of the Pantheon.
—
In the year 832 AD, amidst the once proud landscapes of Greece, a small caravan of two dozen pagans fled desperately for their lives and beliefs, their path tracing the ancient roads laid down by their ancestors' hands. Behind them, the relentless advance of Charlemagne's Christian armies sought to extinguish the last flickers of their faith, the final vestiges of the Pantheon.
Among them, a fair maiden, her ebony locks cascading like shadows, found herself nestled in the back of an ox-drawn covered wagon, her swollen belly heavy with the promise of new life. Despite the chaos surrounding her, the impending birth refused to wait for more opportune times.
Across the distant horizon, the thunderous hooves of warhorses and the gleaming armor of knights heralded the approach of their pursuers.
"Oh, beloved Ares, hear my plea!" she beseeched with fervor, her hair tangled and her brow beaded with sweat. "I carry your child; will you not shield the last of your faithful and your own kin?" Her cries mingled with the collective prayers of the caravan, a chorus of desperation rising to the heavens.
"The child is in distress," the midwife declared, her voice urgent as she tended to the stricken mother. "O Pantheon and Ares, father of this babe, heed the anguished cries of your devotees!" she implored, her words a lament woven into the fabric of the caravan's despair.
Amidst the cacophony of agony and supplication, the fair maiden screamed with the fierce intensity of labor, each contraction a testament to the struggle between life and death. And then, with a final, resolute push, a newborn's cry shattered the tension, heralding the arrival of a new soul into the tumultuous world of men.
Before them on the stone road, a sudden flash, burning red and billowing smoke, halted the caravan of Pagans fleeing for their lives from the relentless armies of Charlemagne. The oxen, startled, came to an abrupt stop as all present stood in awe. Before them materialized a powerful and imposing figure, clad in full centurion gold and fiery red armor.
"Ares! My love!" exclaimed the maiden, her voice tinged with both disbelief and relief. "I knew you would hear me!" With trembling hands, she sat up at the rear of the wagon, cradling their newborn child wrapped in a linen blanket.
"I am sorry, my love," Ares spoke, his countenance heavy with sorrow. "Though you, brave band, are the last remnants of our faithful, it is with deep regret that I must inform you: we are leaving Gaia, forever. The prayers of humans no longer reach our ears, the incense of the temples no longer graces our senses."
Horror and shock rippled through the small caravan of humans like a dark tide.
"I have but one final miracle left within me, before I depart this world forever," Ares admitted, his voice tinged with shame, "And I require one last act of devotion to bring about my final miracle!"
"Anything, my lord!" cried the people, desperate for succor and salvation.
"I will do whatever you ask of me, my love…" The fair maiden winced, overcome by the agony of childbirth.
Ares extended his hand, the golden sheen of his armor casting a radiant glow in the fading light. "I will take our child with me, to be raised in safety among us."
Tears and pain mingled on the maiden's flushed face as she slowly nodded. She knew this pain was far from ordinary, and she feared she might not survive to see the end of the day.
"I also need a little more from each of you, to accomplish this miracle," Ares announced, his voice resonating with authority as he approached his son.
The maiden lifted the crying infant into his arms, her face a mixture of exhaustion and determination.
Taking the squirming baby into his godlike arms, Ares muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the child's features. "He will need all the strength of a mortal he can possess in order to survive our vessel."
With a steady gaze, Ares held the newborn up high in the air. "For Drayvos! The Last Son of Man and of Ares!"
The two dozen humans cheered with fervor, their voices echoing against the backdrop of the ancient countryside.
Cradling the child to his bosom, Ares drew his sword and raised it aloft. "For my son to live." His words hung in the air, charged with determination. "He must have your life essences."
Then, as if summoned by Ares's command, a sudden rush of wind enveloped the caravan. The air itself seemed to shudder and recoil, as if pulled by an invisible force. The beasts of burden strained against their harnesses, the very vegetation of the land quivered in response.
Screams, gasps, and wails of exhalation pierced the air as the life essence of the caravan, the beasts of burden, the accompanying flocks, and even the vegetation around was drawn forth, pulled inexorably towards the newborn child cradled in Ares's arms. The swirling gale of energy danced around the infant, sinking into his lungs with a palpable force.
And then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. The newborn lay quiet in Ares's arms, his small form pulsating with the absorbed life force of all living things in the vicinity.
Ares sighed, a mixture of regret and resignation in his voice. "It is done. There are no more faithful on Gaia 3," he murmured to himself and his child. "Returning to Olympus, ready for departure."
With a flash of fiery red, Ares, the God of War, departed the surface of the planet Earth for the last time, leaving behind a caravan of corpses, forever changed by the events of that fateful day. A deed never to be recorded in the annals of history.
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