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Chapter Text

A Quite Life

Louisiana, 1993

The early autumn mist hung low over the Louisiana woods, thick and silver like breath against cold glass. The world was quiet in the way Will Graham liked best—where only the birds dared speak.

Eighteen-year-old Will sat on the porch of his modest home, the old wood creaking under his weight as he sipped weak coffee from a chipped mug. His dogs were scattered around the porch and yard—three mutts of various sizes and ages. Each one had found him, not the other way around.

He never questioned it.

The dogs didn’t bark much. They didn’t need to. They understood him. And Will understood them, sometimes too well.

He wasn’t sure when it started—this feeling of others. It wasn’t just reading body language or tone. It went deeper. Sometimes he would lock eyes with a person or an animal and know. Know what they were feeling. What they had done. What they might do.

It unnerved people. Professors hesitated when he answered questions in class—because he’d cut right through the subject and into something personal, something real. Sometimes they smiled, but it didn’t reach their eyes. Other times they avoided him altogether.

He had learned not to speak unless he had to.

That morning, Will had a textbook open on his lap: Introduction to Behavioral Sciences. The words were dense, clinical, and cold. Pages of theory, studies, statistics. It tried to explain what Will felt every time he walked past a stranger and felt their sorrow or fear like static electricity.

It didn’t help. It only made him feel more other.

A soft whine brought him back to the present. Bear, the oldest of his dogs, had padded over and placed his heavy head on Will’s knee. He looked up with eyes too human.

Will reached out and touched the dog’s forehead. “You miss her too,” he said quietly.

He didn’t need to explain who her was. Bear’s tail gave a slow, mournful thump against the porch.

Will had tried not to think about his mother—gone two years now, her laughter only a flicker in the corners of his memory. His father, who had never really been a father, was a ghost even before he walked out.

Will was alone. And yet… not. There was a hum in the world. An invisible current that moved through the trees, into the bones of the earth, and sometimes—when Will was very still—he could feel it ripple through him.

It was both beautiful and terrifying.

He didn’t know it yet, but the gods had started to notice.

Divine Attention

High above the mortal world, beyond clouds and storms and the passage of time, Olympus stirred.

It began with an idle remark.

Aphrodite lounged upon a chaise of spun rose gold, toying lazily with a blossom that never wilted. Her voice drifted like silk through the pillared halls.

“There’s a mortal boy in the South,” she said, idly twisting a lock of her shimmering hair. “A quiet one. Strange. But his soul… almost rivals mine.”

That got their attention.

Athena, reading a scroll in the adjacent chamber, paused. “You exaggerate.”

“I don’t,” Aphrodite replied, not looking up. “He’s beautiful, yes. But it’s more than that. He feels too much. It makes him glow.”

“Glowing mortals are usually ill,” muttered Apollo from across the hall. He was tuning a lyre, but his fingers faltered. “Where?”

Aphrodite shrugged. “Somewhere in Louisiana. He talks to animals. Thinks he’s just sensitive. It’s cute.”

Poseidon, lounging beside a reflecting pool, frowned. “I saw a boy like that—by the river. He sat for hours. The water near him calmed. Even the fish watched him.”

Hades, hidden in shadow at the edge of the council chamber, said nothing for a moment. Then: “His grief calls to me. It’s old. Quiet. But not hollow.”

“Not hollow,” Hera echoed from her throne. She rarely spoke of mortals, even less of mortal men. “That’s rare.”

Athena narrowed her eyes. “He’s young. Human. Barely started his journey. Why would he call to you?”

“Because,” Hades said, “he doesn’t run from sorrow. He lives with it.”

A gust of wind curled through the chamber. Zeus stepped forward, thunder curling beneath his words. “What mortal could stir this much noise among gods?”

“A beautiful one,” Aphrodite said with a smile. “One with power he doesn’t know. You should see his eyes. There’s lightning buried there.”

Zeus scowled. “Beauty isn’t power.”

“No,” murmured Ares, who had just arrived and caught the tail end of the conversation. “But the boy has both. I’ve watched him in the woods. Alone. Quiet. But never afraid.”

“His mind,” Athena added, “is structured like a maze. Brilliant, but broken. I want to know what made it so.”

Apollo, eyes distant now, whispered: “He came to me in a dream. Unintentionally. His voice echoed through the chords of my harp.”

They all fell quiet.

Even gods knew the weight of such convergences. For a mortal to stir one god’s attention was rare. To stir seven? Unheard of.

“Aphrodite,” Hera said coolly, “what is his name?”

Aphrodite smiled, pleased by their reaction. “Will Graham.”

And just like that, the gods of Olympus began to watch.

First Divine Encounter

Will Graham did not believe in magic.
He believed in behavior. Patterns. Triggers. Trauma. Things that could be measured, even if not fully understood.

But lately, the world had started behaving… differently.

It began small. A man in the grocery store muttering to himself in a language Will had never heard but instinctively understood. Ancient Greek. He was sure of it, though he didn’t know how.

Then, the shadows in his backyard grew too long. Too slow. They clung to trees like dripping ink even after the sun had risen.

And then there was the coin.

He found it nestled in his jeans pocket, cool to the touch and unnervingly perfect. Gold, embossed with an unfamiliar symbol—an archer standing beneath the sun. He tried to use it at a diner, only for the cashier to blink and say, “We don’t take... whatever that is.”

He didn’t remember picking it up.

He told himself he was imagining things. That he was tired. That the stress of school, the isolation, the empathy that tore at his mind every day like quiet claws—was finally catching up to him.

And then he dreamed.

Not the usual kind, not the disjointed flickers of memory and metaphor. This was clear, focused, warm. Intentional.

The dream opened in a field of golden wheat, bending gently in a breeze that hummed with music. The sky was soft and endless, the sun glowing like a second heart overhead. Will stood barefoot in the grass, aware of every sound, every heartbeat of the earth beneath his feet.

And then he heard it—the music. A lyre, plucked delicately, followed by a voice that shouldn’t have belonged to any human.

Smooth, radiant. Gentle enough to soothe pain. Strong enough to split stone.

Will turned.

A man approached, cloaked in light. His hair was gold and sunlight combined. His eyes shimmered with starlight refracted through honey. He wore no shoes, only a robe of white and fire, and across his back was a lyre that pulsed like it was alive.

“Will Graham,” the man said, smiling. “You’ve heard my song before, though not like this.”

“Who… are you?” Will asked, barely able to speak.

“I’ve been called many things,” the man replied. “But I like Apollo best.”

Will stepped back. “No. This is a dream. You’re not real.”

Apollo laughed—not cruelly, but like someone who had heard the same denial for millennia. “Isn’t it beautiful how you humans always try to explain away wonder?”

“I don’t—”

“You feel too much, Will. You carry it like a lantern in the dark. That light… it reaches even us.” Apollo stepped closer, and the field shimmered. “You are not ordinary.”

Will felt the weight of those words settle on his chest.

“Why are you here?” he asked, softly.

Apollo’s eyes softened. “To show you that you are seen.”

Then, with a gentle pluck of the lyre, the dream faded.

Will awoke with a start, heart pounding. Morning light poured through the window. The coin lay on his nightstand, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight.

He was not alone. And he was no longer sure he ever had been.

Doubt and Skepticism

Will tried to dismiss the dream.

He had to.

It was too vivid, too perfect—too crafted. His mind was sensitive, vulnerable. He’d read about dream projection in psychological case studies. Maybe it was a symptom. Maybe it was stress. The coin, he decided, was something he had picked up without realizing. A token, a trinket.

Coincidences. All of it.

He forced himself into routine. Mornings with the dogs. Afternoon classes. Reading in the library until close. Pretending he didn't feel the air hum when he was alone. Pretending he didn't see things—just out of frame—moving when they shouldn’t.

The delusion cracked when the storm came.

A Louisiana thunderstorm was nothing new, but this one was different. The sky cracked open like it was angry. Rain lashed sideways in sheets. The kind of storm that felt personal. Will had just stepped out to secure the porch tarp when the lightning struck—not nearby, but in front of him. Blinding. Ear-splitting.

And in the aftermath, a man stood there. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sea-green eyes and wet dark hair. The air around him smelled of salt and ozone.

“I’ve been waiting,” the man said, as if they’d spoken before.

Will stumbled back. “Who the hell are you?”

The man didn’t flinch. “Poseidon.”

Will stared, blinking through rain. “Okay. Okay—no. You people need to stop.”

“We’re not people.”

“Then what are you, hallucinations?” Will snapped. “Cultists? Stalkers? You think showing up during a thunderstorm makes you what—godlike?”

Poseidon only studied him, rain dripping down his face like it didn’t matter. “You’ll understand in time.”

“No, I won’t,” Will hissed. “Leave me alone.”

Poseidon didn’t chase him. He just gave a nod—oddly respectful—and vanished in the next blink of lightning.

Two days later, it happened again.

In the university library, as Will combed through a volume on human cognition, a woman sat across from him without asking. Tall. Regal. Steel-gray eyes that saw straight through him.

“You don’t belong here,” she said.

Will flinched. “Excuse me?”

“In this quiet corner. In this small life. You were made for more.”

Will’s hands clenched the book. “If this is some kind of elaborate prank, you can tell your friends I’m not amused.”

The woman raised a brow. “I am Athena.”

“No, you’re not. You’re someone pretending to be—because that’s less terrifying than the alternative.”

“You’re correct to be skeptical,” she said, as if analyzing him. “Most mortals fall to awe or madness. You resist. That’s good.”

Will stood. “You’re not real. None of this is.”

He left. She didn’t follow.

Will did the only thing he could think of—he called the campus mental health line.

The next afternoon, he sat in a small office with Dr. Spencer, a gentle woman with kind eyes who offered tea and silence. Will didn’t tell her everything. He didn’t say the name Apollo or Poseidon. He just said: “I think I’m seeing people who aren’t real.”

She didn’t laugh. She just nodded and said, “That must be frightening.”

And for the first time in days, Will exhaled.

But when he returned the next day for his second session, the receptionist blinked at him.

“Dr. Spencer? We don’t have anyone by that name on staff.”

He left the building in silence, the weight in his chest heavier than ever.

That night, he didn’t dream.
But the golden coin glowed faintly from his nightstand.
Watching.
Waiting.

Proof of Divinity

The storm returned a week later, but this time, the sky didn’t just growl—it roared.

Thunder cracked like war drums across the heavens, and the wind whipped through the trees surrounding Will’s home with a force that bent trunks and tore branches from their roots. The air turned electric, buzzing with pressure, as if the world was holding its breath.

Will stood on his porch, drenched to the bone, the dogs whining low behind him.

And then the lightning struck.

Not once. Not twice.

It struck around him—six bolts, equidistant, forming a perfect circle. Fire danced along the wet grass without burning it. In the center, the storm parted.

And there, stepping through the rupture in the sky, came the last god Will didn't want to see.

He was massive. Towering. Cloaked in robes of stormclouds and gold. Lightning crowned his head like a shattered halo. His eyes were white-hot and ancient.

“Will Graham,” Zeus said, voice rumbling not through the air—but through the earth, the bones of trees, the marrow of Will’s own body.

Will couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

“I come not with riddles or illusions,” Zeus continued. “You’ve doubted. Now you will know.”

He raised a hand.

A bolt of lightning, sharp and brilliant as the birth of a star, hurtled toward Will—and stopped inches from his chest.

Frozen in time.

Will stared at the suspended bolt, crackling silently before his eyes. His breath caught in his throat, his body trembling.

And then the world folded.

The rain stopped. The sky tore open, not with destruction—but with light. The trees disappeared, the grass beneath him softened to marble, and a great wind lifted him up, not by force but by will alone.

He landed on marble.

White and glowing, the air around it too pure to breathe, the horizon a sea of stars and sunrise. Columns stretched into infinity. There were halls that echoed with hymns from voices that didn’t need mouths. Golden rivers poured down steps that didn’t descend.

He was standing in Olympus.

For a moment, Will forgot how to exist.

He turned and saw statues move—no, not statues. Gods. Tall and radiant, some veiled in shadow, others wrapped in light. Apollo was there, watching him with a soft smile. Athena sat calmly, fingers steepled in thought. Poseidon nodded with approval. Aphrodite smirked, leaning against a pillar like a bored cat.

Even Hera looked intrigued.

Will dropped to his knees.

Zeus stood above him, a mountain in human shape.

“Now,” he said, “do you still believe you’re mad?”

Will didn’t answer right away. His heart was pounding. His body felt small and fragile. But his voice, when it came, was steady:

“…No.”

Zeus nodded, pleased.

Then the light began to dim. Olympus faded like mist in the morning. The wind returned. Rain pressed against his face again.

He was back on the porch.

But nothing was the same.

The storm had passed. Not a single tree had fallen. The grass in the yard had dried.

And on the porch railing, a feather—silver and white, warm to the touch—rested in perfect stillness.

Gods' Obsession Intensifies

They knew the moment his doubt broke.

A ripple passed through Olympus, subtle as a change in wind direction but deep as tectonic plates shifting.

Will Graham believed.

And belief, when offered by someone so rare—so receptive—was an invitation none of the gods could ignore.

That night, Will dreamed again.

But this time, it wasn’t golden wheat and gentle sun. This time, he stood on a balcony suspended in space, the stars moving like dancers beneath his feet. The sky pulsed with music—notes visible as threads of light, winding through constellations.

Apollo stood beside him, wearing a cloak of firelight and shadow. His lyre hovered before them, strung with beams of sunlight.

“You’ve crossed a threshold,” the god said gently, plucking a chord that made Will’s bones hum. “The others will come. They will offer. They will want. You must see beyond what they show.”

Will looked at him. “And what do you want?”

Apollo smiled. “To give you truth.”

He reached forward and placed his hand over Will’s heart.

A vision flooded Will’s mind—

A great war between gods bleeding into the mortal world. A storm of wings and flame. Seven children standing at the edge of a battlefield. Their faces unfamiliar… but somehow, he knew them.

And then the sun darkened, and Will screamed as the world fractured—

He woke up in bed, drenched in sweat, the lyre’s last note still echoing in his ears.

The prophetic dream lingered like an aftertaste of lightning. 

The next night, Will didn’t sleep.

But still, Hades came.

It wasn’t a dream. Will was certain of it. One moment he was drinking tea at the kitchen table, and the next, the shadows at the edge of the room stretched and peeled apart.

A corridor appeared—lined with obsidian, glowing faintly blue from within.

“Come,” said the voice from the dark.

Against his instincts, against logic, Will stepped forward.

He emerged into silence.

Not the silence of emptiness—but of peace. The Underworld stretched before him in graceful halls and weeping willows. Souls wandered, calm and unburdened. No screams. No fire. Just… stillness.

Hades stood near the edge of a river so black it shimmered.

“Death,” he said, “is not always a punishment.”

Will watched a young woman greet an old man at the shore. They embraced. Then faded.

“I didn’t bring you here to scare you,” Hades said. “I brought you here so you’d see the truth of my realm. The comfort I offer.”

“And what do you want?” Will asked again, more guarded now.

Hades met his gaze. “To protect what is already yours—even if you don’t know it yet.”

Will felt it then—that pull. A sense of safety, strange and absolute, like being wrapped in stone that would never crack.

Then the shadows rose again, and Will found himself back at his kitchen table.

The tea had gone cold.

They were coming.

Each one with their own promises.
Each one with their own purpose.
And Will, already half-lost between gods and man, would have to choose what parts of himself to guard… and what parts to surrender.

-

The third day brought the sea.

It began with a pull—quiet but insistent.

Will found himself walking without realizing, led by instinct and something deeper. He left the campus, passed the edge of the woods, and followed an old path he hadn’t noticed before. It led to a small, hidden lake—a place untouched, unmapped.

The air smelled like salt.

Waves lapped gently at the shore, though there was no wind.

Then the surface shifted.

Poseidon rose from the lake like it parted only for him—tall, regal, clothed in wet silver and seaweed. His presence was vast. The pressure of oceans behind human eyes.

Will didn’t speak.

“I’m not like the others,” Poseidon said, his voice rolling like deep tide. “They speak in riddles and prophecy. I show what is.”

He extended a hand.

Will hesitated, then touched it.

The world blurred.

He was suddenly standing underwater, but breathing. Schools of fish shimmered around him like glittering thoughts. Coral reefs pulsed with slow, ancient life. Above, the sun filtered through the surface like broken gold.

Then he felt it—an overwhelming calm. The pull of the tides mirrored his own heartbeat. The enormity of life beneath the waves. Its pain. Its peace.

“You feel the suffering of others,” Poseidon said beside him. “But here, there is stillness. No past. No future. Just being.”

Will looked up at him. “You want something too.”

Poseidon gave the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply wish to show you there’s power in peace.”

The waters dissolved.

Will stood again by the lake, barefoot and dry.

Later that night, Will wandered the university library—restless. The shelves felt like walls now. Too small for what he had seen.

Athena was waiting in the philosophy wing.

She did not speak at first. Just followed him silently as he moved.

“You rejected the illusions,” she said finally, calmly. “That is good. Emotion clouds judgment.”

Will turned. “And you think yours is clearer?”

Athena met his eyes without blinking. “Yes.”

She stepped forward and placed a finger on his temple.

Images flashed behind his eyes—battlefields mapped out like blueprints. Cities built and destroyed. Conversations unwritten, already predicted. Equations. Warfare. Strategy. Knowledge folded into knowledge.

It hurt.

Will pulled away, gasping.

“You crave understanding,” Athena said. “So I offer mine.”

He rubbed at his temple. “Why? Why me?”

“Because you are more than empathy,” she said. “You are potential. Unused. Undirected. I would give it purpose.”

“You want to make me a weapon,” he said flatly.

Athena tilted her head. “No. I want to make you a mind that cannot be moved. And that frightens even gods.”

Will stared at her, shaken but fascinated.

She disappeared between the stacks like a breath of logic extinguished.

Will awoke in the dead of night, heart pounding like it was trying to break free from his chest. The air felt wrong—charged. The woods outside his cabin buzzed like a hive ready to break.

Then he heard it.

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming directly toward the front door.

He didn’t reach for a weapon. He knew—without knowing how—that it would do nothing.

The door creaked open. No knock. Just presence.

A man entered—massive, broad-shouldered, wearing simple combat boots and a blood-red cloak that moved like it had its own pulse. His eyes gleamed like burning coals. His smile was more a challenge than a greeting.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he rumbled.

“You don’t seem the type to wait for permission,” Will said quietly.

Ares laughed. “You’re sharp. Good. The smart ones usually break. You haven’t.”

He stepped forward. Will didn’t retreat—but the dogs did. They backed away, hackles raised, silent and tense.

“I’ve been watching,” Ares continued. “You’ve got a fire in you. Buried under all that softness.”

“I’m not a soldier.”

“No. But you could be a general.”

Will’s breath caught.

Ares reached into his coat and tossed something onto the table with a clatter.

A jagged shard of metal—blackened at the tip, humming faintly.

“A piece of a sword from a war that hasn't happened yet,” Ares said. “I want you to have it. Just in case.”

Will looked down at it, then up again. “Why me?”

“Because you don’t want power. That makes you the only one I trust to have it.”

And then he vanished in a burst of heat that cracked the windows.

She came without announcement, without drama.

Will was walking to class when time… paused.

Everyone stopped mid-step. Birds froze in flight. Leaves hung still in midair.

Then she appeared.

A tall woman in an immaculate white gown, standing at the edge of the path. She radiated control. Beauty without fragility. Authority without effort.

Will turned to face her. “Hera.”

She nodded. “You are not what I expected.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Unsettling,” she replied. “Which is better than boring.”

Will didn’t speak.

“I do not chase mortals,” she said plainly. “They chase me. Or they fear me. But you… you are something else.”

“You mean an inconvenience,” he muttered.

She studied him. “A disruption.”

Then she stepped closer, not unkindly. “You bring gods together—and divide them in the same breath. Do you know how rare that is?”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Will whispered.

“No,” Hera said. “But you will carry it anyway. Like a mother does a child.”

Will froze.

She smiled faintly. “We are not so different.”

With a blink, she was gone. Time resumed like nothing had happened.

That night, as Will sat on the edge of his bed, exhausted beyond sleep, the sky outside lit up—not with weather, but will.

Zeus didn’t step through a door or rise from a flame. He manifested. A presence in the room so strong the walls bowed inward to accommodate it.

“I warned them not to crowd you,” he said, voice like distant thunder. “They don’t listen.”

Will looked up, numb. “They want pieces of me.”

Zeus nodded. “Of course they do. You’re rare. Beautiful. Compassionate. Terrifyingly human.”

“And you?”

Zeus smiled, sharp and sad. “I want you to remember: gods are not kind. Not truly. But I can be just.”

He stepped forward and held out his hand—not demanding, but steady.

“I won’t ask for your heart. Or your soul. Only your presence.”

Will’s breath trembled. “And if I say no?”

Zeus’s gaze never wavered. “Then we wait. Because none of us are done with you.”

He vanished, leaving behind the scent of ozone and a static charge that lingered in Will’s skin.

The gods had shown their hands.
Some offered peace. Others offered power.
None offered escape.

Will Graham was no longer just a mortal.
He was a prize. A promise. A threat.

And all of Olympus wanted him.

They were fighting for him.

Aphrodite’s Judgement

In the golden halls of Olympus, beauty shimmered in every corner. The air sang with harpstrings and perfumed winds. But today, the air shivered—not with music, but tension.

Aphrodite stood alone on her marble balcony, the horizon blazing pink with divine dusk. Her reflection shimmered in a pool of enchanted glass, but for once, she wasn’t admiring herself.

She was watching him.

Will Graham, mortal. Empath. Anomaly.

She had denied it at first. Dismissed the quiet, haunted young man as a curiosity. Interesting, perhaps. Lovely, certainly. But she had seen a thousand lovely mortals. Ten thousand.

Yet none had stirred Olympus like this.

And that made her angry.

Behind her, the other gods gathered slowly. Drawn by her silence more than her voice.

Apollo. Athena. Poseidon. Hades. Hera. Ares. Even Zeus lingered on the edge, unreadable.

Aphrodite turned to face them, eyes sharp, lips curved in something between amusement and warning.

“Do you all see it now?” she said. “What I saw first?”

Athena scoffed. “You saw his face. That’s not the same as seeing him.”

“And yet here we are,” Aphrodite replied, gliding forward, silk dress rippling like a second skin. “Each of you offering pieces of your kingdoms. Your gifts. Your selves. And why?”

No one answered.

She stopped in the center of them and smiled—but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Because he is beautiful. Not just in body, though he is painfully so. But in soul. In that fragile, trembling human soul that reaches further than any of you are willing to admit.”

Zeus frowned. “He’s a mortal.”

“And that’s why it matters,” Aphrodite said. “He feels everything you’ve long forgotten how to. He loves without calculation. Hurts without armor. And still chooses to carry it all.”

She turned her gaze to Hades. “You crave his sorrow.”

Then to Athena. “You covet his mind.”

Then to Ares. “You admire his restraint.”

Then to Apollo. “You dream of him.”

To Poseidon. “You want his serenity.”

To Hera. “You envy his loyalty.”

And finally, to Zeus. “You fear his refusal.”

Her voice grew softer.

“You think this is harmless. Flirtation. A shared indulgence. But let me tell you something, my fellow radiant gods…”

She stepped to the edge of the balcony and looked down at the mortal realm, where Will sat in his small home, unaware that every star above had begun to watch him.

“Even gods fall,” she said. “But mortals break.”

She turned back toward them, her beauty now fierce, her eyes hard.

“Be careful with him.”

The air fell still. Even the breeze held its breath.

Aphrodite disappeared in a swirl of roses and fire.

And for the first time since this began, the gods of Olympus were left not excited, not hungry—but uneasy.

The Divine Pact Begins

Olympus had seen wars, revolutions, betrayals that split mountains and reshaped continents. But it had never seen this:

A full pantheon convened not over a prophecy, or a rebellion, or a threat to their thrones—but over a single mortal.

Will Graham.

The throne room was too bright, too vast, every word echoing like thunder even when spoken softly. Tension hung thicker than the clouds they sat upon.

They didn’t argue with weapons. They didn’t raise voices. But the glances exchanged between Zeus and Athena, between Ares and Apollo, between Poseidon and Hera, cracked like invisible lightning.

“He belongs to no one,” Hades said at last, his voice a cold, final chord. “We’re not choosing for him.”

“And yet none of you are backing away,” Aphrodite observed, arms crossed, gold cuff gleaming. “You all want him.”

Zeus leaned forward, thunder humming under his skin. “We will share him.”

Athena frowned. “He’s not an object.”

“But he's not a god, either,” Ares snapped. “And he can't survive being torn in seven.”

“Then schedule it,” Poseidon muttered. “If mortals can share custody of a child, surely we can divide time with one man.”

Hera looked disgusted. “This is beneath us.”

“And yet here you are,” Aphrodite said sweetly.

Silence.

A pact was made—informal but binding. Each god would have a portion of Will's time. Visits, influence, presence. No one would overstep. For now.

None of them were happy with it.

But all of them agreed.

Will wasn’t there when the decision was made.

He only knew because the next day—just after sunrise—he opened his front door to find a letter written in gold script, lying on his welcome mat.

“We have agreed. Your time will be shared. Expect us. – Olympus.”

No return address.

He stood there for a long while, the dogs milling anxiously around his legs.

He didn’t go to class. He didn’t eat.

He sat on the floor of his living room, that letter in his lap, rereading it until his hands shook.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t madness. He hadn’t imagined the voices or the visions or the storm parting around his fragile body.

He was just a boy from Louisiana.
A student. A loner. An empath.

And now he was the prize in a game he never asked to play.

That night, he curled into bed with the dogs pressed close, and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

Quietly, more to himself than anyone else, he whispered:

"I just wanted to be normal."

The silence that answered him was too big to be empty.

Chapter Text

The Pact in Action

The Divine Guest

The realm wasn’t Olympus, not exactly.

It wasn’t the Underworld, or the sea, or the sky.

It was something between—a space woven from threads of divinity, shaped by consensus, conjured from compromise. A neutral ground created by gods who didn’t trust each other enough to share their own domains, but wanted their mortal obsession safe and accessible.

Will stood in the center of it, unsure of how he'd gotten there. One moment he had blinked in his kitchen, the next he was barefoot on glowing marble that hummed like a heartbeat. The sky was a gradient of stars and soft gold, the air tinged with floral warmth and salt and something metallic.

It was beautiful. It was surreal.
And it wasn’t his.

He didn’t know if the space had a name, but it seemed to respond to his thoughts. When he wished for quiet, the breeze softened. When he wished for distance, the walls grew taller. It adjusted—not just for comfort, but for containment.

He wasn’t chained. He wasn’t trapped. But freedom here felt carefully curated.

Then Hermes arrived.

He materialized mid-stride, scroll in hand, looking like a man who had read too many spreadsheets and not slept in centuries. His robes were askew, sandals worn down, and his winged cap was askew on his head.

“Will Graham,” he said flatly, not unkindly. “I’m Hermes. Mediator. Messenger. Unofficial divine babysitter. I’ll be managing your schedule.”

“…Schedule?” Will asked, voice quiet.

Hermes sighed and unfurled the scroll. “By order of Olympus and enforced by the collective pride of seven highly possessive gods, you are now the recipient of… time-sharing. You’ll receive scheduled visits or divine summoning by each participant, evenly distributed, with adjustment clauses depending on emergencies, emotional distress, or existential crises.”

Will blinked. “What?”

“They’re taking turns.”

He handed the scroll over. It unrolled itself midair.

The Divine Visitation Schedule

• Monday Mornings – Apollo: Meditation, music, dreams.

• Monday Evenings – Athena: Strategy games, philosophical discussion.

• Tuesday – Poseidon: Water therapy, emotional cleansing.

• Wednesday – Hades: Underworld walks, silent company.

• Thursday – Ares: Combat training, adrenaline release.

• Friday – Hera: Family dinner, stability building.

• Saturday – Zeus: Lightning communion, divine authority etiquette.

• Sunday – “Free Day” (still under observation).

Hermes added with a grimace, “They really argued about Sunday. It’s not really free. Think of it as ‘unclaimed but monitored.’ Aphrodite opted out of scheduling, but don’t assume you won’t see her.”

Will stared at the scroll, mouth slightly open.

“This isn’t real,” he muttered.

Hermes gave a sympathetic shrug. “It is. But I get it. I’ve seen lesser mortals crack by now. You’re doing well.”

“Why me?”

“Because you didn’t ask for it,” Hermes said simply. “And that makes you harder to manipulate. Which means they want you more.”

Will sat down on the edge of a couch that hadn’t been there moments before.

He wasn’t a prisoner.

But this wasn’t freedom.

It was… divine courtship, under celestial surveillance.

A gilded cage that sang with beauty and expectation.

And deep inside, Will felt it again—that flicker of loneliness, now accompanied by something worse: pressure. Pressure to endure. To entertain. To be worthy of a fascination he never asked to inspire.

The wind shifted again.

Somewhere, the schedule began ticking.

The Sea's Embrace

Will didn’t remember falling asleep, but he awoke weightless.

There was no pain. No fear. Only a sensation of deep warmth and pressure—like being held gently by something vast.

He opened his eyes to color.

Blues, greens, golds, and iridescent purples swirled around him. He floated in a glass dome that breathed like a lung, suspended in an underwater palace carved into the ocean floor.

The walls were coral towers. Schools of fish darted past like glittering thoughts. Beyond them, light filtered through the sea like strands of silk. Enormous turtles swam overhead. Bioluminescent flora pulsed in soft waves.

He was breathing. Somehow.

Poseidon stood beside him.

No robe today—just sea-worn leather, trident slung casually across his back, eyes as deep and shifting as the ocean itself.

“You're awake,” he said with a smile. “Good. I wanted to show you something.”

He extended a hand. Will hesitated, then took it.

Together, they stepped out of the dome—and the sea welcomed them.

Not a single bubble rose from Will’s mouth. No choking. No drowning. The water parted for him as easily as air. His clothes shimmered, transforming into a loose robe made of kelp and sea-silk.

The hippocampi arrived moments later—giant seahorses with the strength of stallions and eyes as curious as children.

Will’s fingers trembled as he reached out, stroking one’s muzzle. It nuzzled him.

“They know you’re not like other mortals,” Poseidon said, watching. “Your heart doesn’t shout. It listens.”

Will rode.

They passed through coral palaces where merfolk bowed. Nymphs swam beside them in bursts of laughter and bubbles. Leviathans turned their heads to watch him drift by like a comet of flesh and blood.

And through it all, Poseidon watched him—not as a ruler watches a subject, but as a father watches a favored son… or a man watches a precious thing he intends to keep.

When they stopped on a ledge overlooking a trench lit by glowing vines, Poseidon finally spoke again.

“You belong to the ocean,” he said. “You may not know it. But I do.”

Will didn’t reply. The words sat strangely in his chest.

Poseidon turned to him, voice gentler now. “You’re soft. But there’s steel in you, Will. Mortals see your silence and call it weakness. But we—I—see what you are. You bend like water. That’s how you survive.”

Will looked away, uneasy. “You talk like I’m already yours.”

There was a pause.

Then Poseidon leaned closer, eyes suddenly serious beneath the calm. “You accepted my touch. You breathe in my world. That means something, even among gods.”

Will stepped back.

The water cooled.

Poseidon’s expression remained composed, but there was a tension there now—a restrained pride that refused to retreat.

“I won’t force anything,” Poseidon said. “But you should know… no gift I offer is without meaning. And I do not offer them lightly.”

Will nodded slowly.

“I need time,” he said.

Poseidon inclined his head. “You’ll have it.”

The next moment, the palace faded around him, and Will stood once more in the divine neutral realm, the marble floor cool beneath his feet.

Salt clung to his skin. A seashell had been tucked into his palm.

He closed his hand around it and whispered to himself:

“That didn’t feel like kindness.”

Light, Music, and Prophecy

Will stepped into sunlight so pure it nearly blinded him.

This realm was different. No marble, no coral, no stormclouds. Just endless golden fields, swaying gently beneath an eternal dawn. The sky shimmered in soft amber, clouds drifting like slow-moving brushstrokes across a painting.

Birdsong played in harmonies. The wind itself carried music.

And at the heart of it all stood a temple—white stone veined with gold, ivy curling up its pillars, lyres hanging from branches like fruit.

Apollo was waiting, dressed in loose, sun-colored robes, his feet bare, his golden hair catching every beam of light. His smile was easy, luminous.

“I thought you might enjoy something quieter,” he said.

Will looked around. “It’s… peaceful.”

“Good. The others show you their power. I’d rather show you what makes you breathe.”

He led Will through orchards that smelled of ripe citrus and honey. Nymphs bowed, musicians played quietly from shaded courtyards, and poets scribbled verses that fluttered like birds.

At the temple, Apollo placed a long wooden bow into Will’s hands. Smooth, elegant, clearly not made for war.

“A gift,” he said. “Not a weapon. A symbol.”

Will looked down at it. “What does it symbolize?”

“Choice,” Apollo replied. “Focus. Precision. Things you have, even if you don’t always see them.”

They spent hours—days maybe, it was hard to tell—walking the gardens, sitting in mosaic courtyards, speaking softly. Apollo taught Will how to feel the presence of wounds—physical and emotional—through touch. He showed him how to close his eyes and channel light into the palm of his hand, enough to mend bruises and ease headaches.

“You could become a healer,” Apollo said, watching the glow gather in Will’s fingers. “A rare kind. A true empathic one.”

Will didn’t answer. His hands trembled slightly.

They sat together on the temple’s steps as the sky deepened to rose-gold. Apollo leaned back, strumming a lyre absentmindedly.

“You dream of children,” Apollo said suddenly.

Will froze. “What?”

“In time. Not yet. But it’s there. I see the possibility stretching out in all directions. Little echoes of you. Carried through time like songs.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Will murmured. “I’ve never wanted…”

Apollo’s smile faltered.

“No,” he said softly. “But the gods want. And wanting has weight, Will.”

He turned then, serious for the first time.

“You’re standing at the edge of something you don’t understand yet. A future shaped by divine hands. Not all paths are gentle.”

Will looked at him. “Can I choose?”

Apollo’s gaze warmed again—sad and beautiful.

“Yes,” he said. “But choice and peace… are not the same thing.”

They sat in silence as the sun hovered at the horizon, never setting.

Later, when Will stood to leave, Apollo rose with him. No fanfare. No summons of light. Just a quiet goodbye and a second bow placed gently in Will’s hand—shorter, softer, meant for music, not war.

Will walked away with both.

And behind him, Apollo lingered on the steps of his temple, fingers still on the lyre, watching the mortal he could not help but sing for.

Mind Over Heart

The air was still when Will arrived—but not empty.

He stood at the entrance of a towering library-temple, its white stone columns etched with languages both known and forgotten. Vines coiled in careful symmetry, not wild but placed, as though even nature obeyed order here. The scent of old paper and ink filled the air like incense.

A bronze owl fluttered silently overhead.

Athena stood near the entrance, dressed not in armor but in a scholar’s robe, pale gray with a silver belt. Her eyes—sharp and unreadable—met his as though she’d been expecting him for years.

“On time,” she said, approving. “Good.”

Will offered a cautious nod. “You said this was your… domain?”

“One of them,” she replied. “The one where thought has shape.”

She led him through the halls.

Living scrolls unfurled as they passed, whispering theories and counterpoints aloud. Books reorganized themselves as if sensing what he might be interested in next. Strategy puzzles—half-mechanical, half-sentient—shifted their pieces when Will walked by.

“This place responds to curiosity,” Athena said. “Much like I do.”

She guided him to a circular chamber at the library’s heart, where a low marble table was covered with a sprawling battlefield made of light. Soldiers moved, castles flickered. The war adjusted with each turn of a dial.

“A test?” Will asked, already recognizing the patterns.

“A game,” she corrected. “Though perhaps those are the same.”

They played.

For hours.

Athena adjusted rules mid-match, presenting new ethical dilemmas, shifting victories into moral gray zones. Will held his own—not by brute intellect, but by intuition. He found peace where conflict brewed. He sacrificed pieces others would protect. He learned when to yield.

Athena watched him, intrigued. “You don’t think like a god.”

“Maybe because I’m not one,” Will replied softly.

“No,” she agreed. “You feel too much. And yet… you see what we miss.”

She set the game aside.

They walked again, this time to a garden atrium where the walls bloomed with fractal patterns and equations that grew like ivy.

“Do you believe emotion clouds logic?” she asked suddenly.

Will took a moment.

“No. I think it reveals logic,” he said. “It’s the impulse that makes meaning out of information. Otherwise it’s just… calculation.”

Athena regarded him in silence, expression unreadable.

“That’s not the answer I expected,” she said at last. “But it’s the one I’ll remember.”

They didn’t touch. She didn’t press close. Her interest was not of hunger or possession.

Instead, it was the rare respect of a mind that saw another not as lesser, but parallel.

“You could become more,” she said. “Not because of what we give you—but because of what you already are.”

Will met her gaze. “And what do you want from me?”

Athena tilted her head.

“Dialogue.”

And it was the first time one of them left without trying to keep him.

As Will returned to the neutral divine realm, the scroll still in his hand retracted the word Tuesday and unfurled a glowing Wednesday in its place.

But Athena’s words lingered in his mind like the echo of a puzzle not yet solved.

Fire and Conflict

The arena was burning.

Not with flame—but with fury. The sky overhead was crimson and bruised, thick with smoke and the smell of blood long dried. The ground was scorched obsidian, etched with faded battle lines, and every gust of wind carried the echo of a war cry.

Will stood at the edge, breath held, muscles tight.

Ares waited at the center—bare-chested, hands wrapped in leather, a short blade strapped to each thigh. He wasn’t regal like Zeus, or glowing like Apollo. He was rough—scarred, restless, eyes like flint waiting for a spark.

“I don’t teach poets,” Ares said, rolling his shoulders. “You want peace, you go cry in Apollo’s fields.”

Will met his gaze. “I’m not here to cry.”

A slow grin spread across Ares’ face. “Good.”

With a snap of his fingers, weapons clattered onto the blackened floor—staves, swords, weighted gloves, blunt iron.

“Choose.”

Will didn’t.

Instead, he stepped into the ring empty-handed.

Ares raised a brow. “Brave or stupid?”

Will shrugged. “You’re going to test me either way.”

Ares lunged.

It wasn’t a real attack—not at first. A swipe, a trip, a shove. But Will didn’t fall. He rolled. Dodged. Scrambled back to his feet.

Then came the real hit—fast and hard. Will stumbled to his knees, blood in his mouth.

But he got back up.

Again. And again.

“You don’t know how to fight,” Ares growled.

“Maybe not,” Will panted, wiping blood from his lip. “But I know how to hurt.”

That made Ares pause.

“You think pain makes you strong?”

“No,” Will said. “Living with it does.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

Ares lowered his fists. He stared at Will—not with pity, not even admiration. Something more primal. The moment after the battlefield, when a warrior finds another not as an enemy… but as someone worthy.

“You don’t break easy,” Ares muttered.

“I do,” Will said quietly. “But I come back.”

Ares stepped forward, not touching—but close enough for Will to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“Everyone else wants your softness,” he said. “Your light. Your gentleness. But I see the rage underneath. I see what you don’t show them.”

Will didn’t deny it.

Ares reached out, then stopped. A gesture of restraint Will didn’t expect.

“I won’t coddle you. I won’t wrap you in silk. But if anyone tries to tear you apart again—god or not—they’ll have to go through me.”

Will’s voice was low. “You think I need protection?”

Ares smirked. “No. I think you deserve it anyway.”

The sky crackled overhead.

Ares turned away, the edge of his blade glinting with heat.

When Will was sent back to the neutral realm, his palms were blistered, his body ached—but his mind burned sharper than ever.

He hadn’t won the fight.

But he had won Ares.

Quiet and Shadow

There was no noise in the Underworld.

Not silence, not absence—stillness.

When Will stepped into the realm of Hades, it was like falling into deep water without ever touching the surface. The air was cool, dry, and carried the scent of cypress and stone. The skies were not black but muted gray, like the world had exhaled and never inhaled again.

Nothing moved unless it had purpose.

Hades was waiting for him—not on a throne, not in a temple, but beside the River Lethe, his cloak trailing in the still waters. No crown. No weapon. Just a tall, pale figure who carried more gravity in his presence than thunder or flame ever could.

“You came willingly,” Hades said, voice smooth and low. It didn’t echo—it settled.

“You gave me quiet,” Will replied. “I think I needed that.”

They walked in silence for a time. Shades passed, pale and content, their memories gone or distant. They bowed slightly as Hades passed, but did not speak. Will didn’t ask questions.

He felt the peace.

Not the cold detachment of death, but the relief of no longer being watched. No expectations. No schedules. Just existence, stripped of pretense.

“Empathy,” Hades said quietly, “is a kind of haunting. You carry too much of others inside yourself. Their pain. Their fear. Their lies. That noise—never ends, does it?”

Will didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They came to a grove where the trees grew upside down—roots above, leaves glowing faintly beneath. Will sat on a low bench carved from volcanic glass. Hades didn’t sit beside him. He remained standing. Guarding.

“You are not like the others,” Hades said.

Will sighed. “That’s what they all say.”

“But I mean it,” Hades continued. “They love the idea of you. The beauty. The softness. The resistance. I see the cost.”

That made Will look up.

“I see you,” Hades said. “Not what you could be. Not what they want you to become. Just… you.”

Will swallowed, throat dry.

“I should feel safe here,” he whispered. “But I don’t.”

Hades gave a small, knowing nod. “Because you’re not ready to rest. Not yet.”

The words struck deeper than prophecy.

They didn’t talk about love. Or devotion. Or desire.

There was only the understanding between two quiet things—both built to listen. Both shaped by shadows. Both too tired to pretend anymore.

When Hades walked Will back to the edge of the realm, he didn’t ask for anything. He simply placed a small stone into Will’s hand—obsidian carved with a symbol Will couldn’t read but felt.

“A memory,” Hades said. “For when you forget who you are in the noise.”

Will nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

The Underworld didn’t vanish when he left.

It simply let him go.

Back in the divine neutral realm, the obsidian stone was still warm in his palm. And for once, Will didn’t feel overwhelmed.

He felt understood.

The Paradox of Devotion

The garden was flawless.

Every flower bloomed at its peak. Vines wrapped around marble pillars in perfect spirals. No leaf was out of place. The air smelled like jasmine and law—sweet, but strict. Order hummed beneath everything like an invisible harp string pulled taut.

Will stood at the edge of a koi pond. The water reflected not his face, but multiple versions of him—older, younger, peaceful, broken. None were quite right.

Across the garden, Hera watched.

She walked toward him without hurry, her gown shimmering like starlight pressed into silk. Her expression was serene, unreadable. Regal not by effort, but by nature.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice warm but measured.

Will inclined his head. “Is this Olympus?”

“It is mine,” Hera replied. “More honest than Olympus.”

She motioned for him to follow. They walked along a hedge maze where no path was wrong, only designed. Will noticed every step seemed already chosen, like the garden anticipated where he should go.

“You created this?” he asked.

“I shaped it,” she answered. “Chaos is natural. Order is divine.”

They passed a fountain shaped like a tree—water running backward from the roots to the leaves. Beside it, a white peacock turned its head to Will and bowed.

“I’ve seen the others,” Will said. “They show me beauty. Power. Choice.”

Hera smiled without warmth. “And I offer you structure. Purpose. Permanence.”

She stopped beside a table beneath a pergola hung with roses that didn’t drop petals. The chairs were already pulled out for them.

“You wander,” she said. “You doubt. You endure. And yet, you’re still alone in every space you enter.”

Will sat slowly. “You’re not wrong.”

She tilted her head. “They want your love. I want your presence—not fleeting, not scheduled. Shared legacy. Shared stability.”

He looked at her carefully. “You mean marriage.”

Hera didn't flinch. “I mean devotion. Sanctified. Recognized. Protected.”

“You’re talking like I’m already yours.”

“I’m speaking as if you were already worthy.”

Will hesitated. “And what do I get?”

“A throne. A name that will be whispered with reverence, not confusion. A place beside power that does not consume—but sustains.”

Her words were velvet over steel. No promises of passion. No gifts of light or oceans or prophecy.

Just belonging—on her terms.

“You would never be harmed,” she added quietly. “Not by them. Not by fate. I would see to it.”

Will stood. “Even if I didn’t want it?”

She met his gaze, cool and unwavering.

“Even then,” she said. “Because sometimes love is knowing better.”

And though she never laid a hand on him, Will felt the pressure of her touch more clearly than anyone else’s.

He returned to the neutral realm with a strange taste in his mouth—like rosewater laced with iron.

He didn’t speak for a while.

Then, softly, to himself:

“That wasn’t love. That was… a contract.”

Storm and Glory

The air cracked open before Will had time to prepare.

One moment he stood alone in the neutral realm—the next, lightning split the sky, blinding and immediate. Thunder boomed not like sound, but like command. The clouds folded into a stairway of light, and a current pulled him upward with terrifying gentleness.

Will didn’t scream. But he didn’t breathe, either.

When he opened his eyes again, he stood on the peak of the world.

No, above it.

A mountain of marble and gold rose above the clouds, its throne carved into the sky itself. The wind howled around them in reverence. The stars were closer here, hanging like lamps just out of reach.

Zeus stood at the edge of it all—cloaked in stormlight, his eyes shining with the glow of lightning storms and ancient judgment. He looked more like a statue brought to life than a man.

And Will?

He stood beside him, small, grounded, but unbent.

“You’ve seen what they offer,” Zeus said, voice low but endless. “Peace, beauty, safety, understanding.”

He turned, and in his hand appeared a crown—not of gold, but of storm: a circlet of light and wind and raw, divine will.

“I offer glory.”

Will blinked slowly. “What kind of glory?”

Zeus gestured, and the sky unfolded.

Will saw it: his own face etched into temples, worshipped in secret and in song. His name whispered with reverence. His children, future and strange, standing at the crossroads of mortal and divine. His own voice carried by wind to guide those lost in the dark.

“You would not grow old,” Zeus said. “You would not fade. You would rule. Immortal. Honored. Remembered.”

He motioned, and beside his own throne, a second appeared—simpler, but carved with Will’s image in glowing veins of crystal and silver.

A place for him.

And yet…

Will’s breath fogged in the cold air. His hand trembled at his side, not with fear—but with certainty.

He looked up at Zeus, and his voice, when it came, was gentle but unshakable.

“No.”

Zeus didn’t react. Not with anger. Not with thunder.

Only stillness.

“You refuse immortality?” he asked.

“I refuse yours,” Will answered. “I don’t want to be worshipped. I want to feel. To hurt. To age. To love without becoming a symbol of it.”

Zeus studied him.

“Mortality is suffering.”

“It’s also mine.”

A long silence passed between them.

Then Zeus stepped back. The throne vanished. The wind calmed.

“You are rare,” he said at last. “Even the gods forget what it means to choose limitation.”

Will nodded. “That’s why I have to choose it.”

And with that, Zeus lifted his hand—not in punishment, but respect—and the wind carried Will away like a whisper.

He returned to the divine realm barefoot, hair wind-blown, the scent of ozone still on his skin.

There was no crown in his hands.
But he’d left one behind.

And he didn’t regret it.

Cracks Begin to Show

The Weight of Attention

The divine realm was quiet again.

No summons. No thunder. No music or riddles or golden gifts.

Just Will.

He sat on the edge of a reflecting pool, watching ripples form with every breath. The marble beneath him was warm, but it didn’t feel real. The sky above—endless and golden—hadn’t changed in days. It was beautiful, sterile, suspended.

Like a painting hung in a museum he could never leave.

Back in the mortal world—his world—things had started to slip.

He had missed class three times last week without noticing. His professors left messages saying he seemed distracted, withdrawn, “harder to reach.” Friends stopped calling. Not out of malice—but confusion. Like something unspoken was building between them, and they didn’t know how to name it.

Even his dogs—when he managed to return—had begun to whine at shadows he couldn’t see.

Time bled strangely now. A visit with one god might last hours in divine terms, but days could pass in the mortal world. It was a slow drift, but real.

Will was losing the life he’d fought to hold onto.

And none of them—none of them—had asked him if he wanted this.

They all gave him something:

Apollo gave light.
Poseidon gave peace.
Athena gave insight.
Hades gave silence.
Ares gave fire.
Hera gave structure.
Zeus gave glory.

But none gave him choice.

None said, What do you want, Will Graham?

He clenched his fists against the marble. The water beside him shimmered briefly, then stilled again.

Across realms, the gods stirred.

They sensed it—not in words, but in energy. A subtle shift in the current of him. Not rebellion… but detachment. A cooling of awe. A mortal heart slipping just out of reach.

Apollo, mid-song, faltered on a note he couldn’t place.
Athena found her scrolls not responding as swiftly.
Ares broke a blade mid-practice, hand twitching with frustration.
Hades looked up from the riverbank, the waters whispering his name.
Poseidon’s waves grew restless, pulled toward a center that refused to hold.
Hera, frowning in her garden, felt an arrangement of roses begin to wilt.
Zeus, above the clouds, looked to the mortal world with narrowed eyes.

Something was changing.

They had shaped him with affection, fascination, power.

But Will Graham was not a clay figure to mold.

He was not a prize.

And gods—no matter how timeless—were beginning to realize:

Their mortal was not so easily held.

Chapter Text

Is This Love, or Captivity?

Will woke in silk.

The bed beneath him was impossibly soft, the sheets cool and perfumed with something floral and ancient. Above him, a domed ceiling shimmered with constellations—stars that moved and shifted as though charting his every breath.

The chamber around him was the stuff of fantasy.

Tapestries of woven starlight. Vases of never-wilting flowers. A mirror that didn’t reflect his face, but his essence—swirls of empathy and pain and light.

Everything was perfect.

And none of it felt real.

He sat up slowly, pressing a palm to the ornate headboard. Gold leaf flaked under his fingers. The walls, curved and gentle, gave no sense of time or direction. No door. No clock. No sky.

Only comfort, sculpted to resemble choice.

He hadn’t asked to be here.

There was no voice summoning him, no god seated beside the bed with riddles or gifts. Just… silence.

And that, more than anything, unnerved him.

He stood.

His clothes had changed—again. A soft robe in pale blue and silver. Divine fashion, tailored without consent. He peeled it off and dressed instead in the simple black shirt and jeans he’d worn days ago—now folded carefully on a nearby chair, like someone had set them there to remind him who he used to be.

The floor beneath his bare feet hummed slightly, responding to his movement. The room adjusted its light as he paced. A dish of fruit appeared when he paused by the table. A scroll unraveled on the wall, detailing the day’s "open hours"—slots where each god might appear, should he wish to receive them.

Receive. Like a host. Or a prisoner.

Will ran a hand through his hair. His fingers shook.

This wasn’t a gift anymore.

It was a gilded mask—worn so long he was forgetting what his real face looked like.

They loved him. Or said they did. They spoke of affection, fascination, purpose. But not one had asked him what he needed. What he missed. What he feared.

They fed him poetry and power, kissed his skin with storms and prophecy.

But none of them had sat beside him and said, Tell me what hurts.

And when he did hurt, they called it fragile. Mortal.

As if that was a flaw.

He sat on the edge of the bed again, breathing slow, shallow. He looked at the mirror.

His reflection had returned. But it looked tired. Pale. Outlined by gold that didn’t belong to him.

He whispered to it:

“Is this what love feels like?”

No answer.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember his dogs. His books. The feeling of real rain on his skin. A teacher’s offhand compliment. A student laughing behind him in class.

They were all fading.

Somewhere beyond the chamber, the gods were watching.

They couldn’t see his thoughts—but they felt them.

The soft flicker of defiance beneath his quiet. The strain behind his stillness. The beginning of something they hadn’t prepared for:

Rejection.

And gods—so used to worship, to control—did not take rejection well.

Conflicting Affections

Lines Are Drawn

It began during Apollo’s time.

Will sat beside the god in his golden temple, the soft chords of a lyre echoing through the orchard. Sunlight streamed between the trees like liquid honey, and for a moment—just a moment—Will let himself forget. The pressure. The watching. The weight of expectation.

Then the air snapped.

The wind shifted—no longer musical, but violent. The trees shook. The golden fruit split on their branches.

And through the orchard came Ares.

His footsteps scorched the grass. His armor hissed with heat. He didn’t bother with politeness or warnings—just marched straight to them, fists clenched, jaw tight.

Apollo stood, eyes narrowing. “You’re not scheduled.”

Ares scoffed. “You think I care about a schedule?”

Will stood slowly, heart pounding.

Ares ignored Apollo entirely and turned to Will. “You’re wasting time here.”

Apollo’s voice went cold. “He chose my day.”

“Then your day’s over.”

Will’s voice cut through the tension—shaken, but firm.

“I’m not property.”

Both gods turned.

Ares exhaled, nostrils flaring. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” Will asked.

Apollo looked away, jaw tightening.

The silence that followed wasn’t resolved. It was interrupted.

Later that day, in the shifting halls of the divine realm, Athena stood with arms folded before the gates of the Underworld.

She didn’t wait for permission.

She appeared beside Hades as Will sat at the edge of the Lethe, trying to breathe.

“You cloak him in sorrow,” Athena said flatly.

Hades didn’t look at her. “I offer him quiet.”

“You feed his weakness.”

“And you ignore his pain.”

They stared at one another. Opposing forces—logic and grief. Mind and shadow.

Will stood slowly, caught between.

“I didn’t ask for a debate,” he said.

Athena frowned. “You deserve clarity, Will. You deserve strength. Not... brooding lullabies.”

“And what do you think strength is?” Hades asked, voice like distant thunder.

Neither god moved, but the tension crackled between them—cold, sharp.

Will stepped away from both.

They didn’t follow.

By nightfall, the divine realm had shifted again—rose petals on marble, soft winds through neatly-trimmed hedges. Hera’s garden.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t scold or threaten.

But her message was clear.

“You see what they are,” she said softly, brushing her fingers over a blooming lily. “Chaos. Greed. Hunger.”

Will said nothing.

“You need someone who offers more than awe,” she continued. “You need constancy.”

He turned to her. “And what do you need, Hera?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “To protect something fragile before they break it.”

She didn’t say who they were. She didn’t have to.

That night, Will sat alone in the divine chamber again.

No doors. No sky. Just a still, suffocating quiet.

His breath came faster. The air felt too rich. The walls too close.

He was not in danger.

He was wanted.

But not understood.

And now… not safe.

Because love—true love—does not compete.

But gods do.

Loss of Autonomy

The Cage Glitters

At first, it was easy to ignore.

A door that didn’t open right away. A change in the lighting that happened just before Will reached for the lamp. A scroll disappearing mid-read, only to return with certain passages redacted or… rephrased.

Subtle.

Curated.

Then came the servants—nymphs, they called themselves. Elegant, smiling, helpful. Always just out of earshot, yet always there. They brought food he didn’t ask for, cleaned clothes he hadn’t worn. They left notes: Apollo noticed your exhaustion. Rest is advised. Athena recommends quiet reflection today. Hera would like you to eat more.

Will smiled at first.

Then he stopped smiling.

The final thread snapped when he stood before the outer gate of the divine realm—nothing dramatic, just a glowing arch nestled between flowering columns that led, according to Hermes, “back to Earth, should you desire it.”

Will did desire it.

He needed it.

The scent of his dogs. The feeling of his real sheets. Noise. Mess. Life.

He stepped toward the gate, heart thudding.

And it didn’t open.

Behind him, soft footsteps approached.

Hermes.

He looked tired, as always—his winged cap askew, scrolls clutched under one arm like an overburdened postal worker of the divine.

Will didn’t turn. “Is it broken?”

Hermes winced. “No. It’s… been locked.”

Silence.

Will slowly turned to face him. “Why?”

Hermes offered a small, practiced smile. “The gods agreed. You’ve been under a lot of strain. Emotional weight, divine saturation, temporal dissonance—”

“I didn’t ask them to agree.”

Hermes fell quiet.

Will stepped forward, low voice tight. “I want to go home. Just for a while.”

Hermes looked away. “They said you’re not ready.”

Will laughed—bitter and sharp. “So I’m not allowed to walk on Earth anymore?”

“You’re being protected.”

“I’m being kept.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Hermes sighed, then finally met his gaze. “They don’t think they’re hurting you, Will. They just don’t know how not to want.”

Will’s hands curled into fists.

“And what do you think, Hermes?”

Hermes hesitated. Then, gently: “I think you’re right. This isn’t love. Not yet. This is possession dressed in concern.”

Will returned to his chamber.

He sat on the floor, back against the cold marble, the gilded beauty around him suddenly brittle.

The gods weren’t just visiting anymore.
They had decided he belonged to them.
And no one—not even Will—had been asked if he agreed.

Will’s Breaking Point

The Mirror Shatters

The feast was opulent, as always.

A table stretched impossibly long, adorned with fruits that shimmered like starlight, chalices overflowing with ambrosia, and music played by invisible instruments that shifted keys with each god’s mood.

Will sat at the center—not at the head, not at the side. The center.

He was dressed in soft silver, adorned in laurels he hadn’t chosen, every plate in front of him arranged precisely to his “preferences.” It was beautiful. Thoughtful. Immaculate.

And it made his skin crawl.

The gods flanked him, each glowing in their own impossible way. Beautiful. Radiant. Powerful.

And each of them, in turn, began to speak.

“Apollo,” Hera said sweetly, lifting her goblet, “your latest hymn to Will was touching. I admire how you reduce mortals to metaphors.”

Apollo smiled tightly. “Not all of us think love must be expressed through contracts, Hera.”

Athena’s eyes flicked up from her scroll. “Perhaps if more of you considered Will’s mind, instead of his image, we wouldn’t be here.”

Ares leaned back with a grunt. “Is that what you call it? An intellectual tug-of-war while the rest of us actually fight to protect him?”

Poseidon’s laughter was low. “You mean intimidate him into submission?”

“I don’t intimidate,” Ares growled.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Apollo muttered.

Even Zeus spoke then, voice calm but edged with thunder. “None of this matters. He belongs here. That’s the only truth that matters.”

The words weren’t cruel.

They were veiled in praise, in pride, in affection.

But every one of them used Will’s name as a measure. As a prize. As a challenge.

A beautiful mask they wore to justify their love.

And Will sat there, still and silent, his hands resting gently on his lap.

He let them speak. Let them perform.

Until the table began to vibrate—not with rage, but with tension. The kind that comes before rupture.

Then Will stood.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t shatter the air.

He just spoke—soft, but clear, and heard by every immortal in the room.

“You all claim to love me.”

They stopped. Every head turned.

“But none of you see me.”

Will looked around, meeting every eye.

“You see what you want me to be. What you think I could become. What I make you feel. What you think I owe you for your kindness.”

Silence deepened.

“Not one of you has asked me what I want without already knowing the answer you hope I’ll give.”

He looked at Athena. “You want my mind.”

To Apollo. “You want my light.”

To Hera. “You want my name beside yours.”

To Ares. “You want my fire.”

To Poseidon. “My stillness.”

To Hades. “My sorrow.”

To Zeus… “My surrender.”

“And none of you want me. Just… Will.”

He sat back down slowly, his breath steady, but his eyes rimmed with quiet, worn grief.

No one spoke.

Until a voice—unexpected—cut gently through the silence.

Aphrodite.

She sipped her wine. Smiled—not with triumph, but tired understanding.

“He’s right.”

The gods turned to her.

She shrugged. “I knew it before the rest of you did. But I let it play out. We always do.”

Her gaze slid to Will—not flirtatious now, not indulgent.

Just... clear.

“The trouble with loving mortals,” she said, “is that we forget they bleed when we hold them too tightly.”

The feast didn’t end in rage or shouts.

It just… ended.

The music faded. The food cooled. The divine glow dimmed.

Will walked out alone.

And for the first time since this began, none of them followed.

The Offer of Godhood (Again)

The Crown They Still Don’t Understand

They brought him to a mountain again.

Not Olympus this time, but something smaller. Quieter. A neutral place crafted for diplomacy, where clouds hung low and golden, and time moved as gently as falling leaves.

Will stood before them—seven gods, radiant in their own ways, all watching him with something that hovered between guilt and need.

He hadn’t asked to come here.

He hadn’t spoken since the feast.

But they spoke now.

Zeus stepped forward first, voice firm, gaze lowered in what passed—barely—for humility.

“We moved too quickly,” he said. “And we’ve forgotten ourselves. Forgotten you.”

He raised a hand, and in it appeared the same storm-forged crown Will had refused before—now glowing softer, threaded with silver instead of lightning.

“Take this, Will,” Zeus said. “Not as a reward, but as a release. Immortality, yes. But with it, autonomy. No more schedules. No more control.”

Hera stood beside him, hands folded. “A title. Not a cage. A consort only to yourself. You would outrank them all—not by power, but by choice.”

Apollo, a step back, added gently, “Your dreams would be your own. You would master prophecy, not suffer it. No more visions you didn’t ask for. No more sleep that punishes.”

Hades, still and unreadable, spoke last: “I would quiet the dead when they come. You would never feel the grief of others again—unless you wanted to.”

It was the most they’d ever offered.

Not just affection, not even obsession.

But control. Peace. Freedom.

A divinity built around him, not over him.

It was the most they knew how to give.

And Will—Will felt it in his chest like a breaking wave. It hurt, how much they wanted him.

It hurt more to realize they still didn’t see the truth.

He looked at the crown in Zeus’s hand.

Then at each of them in turn.

Then he said, voice cracking but steady:

“I don’t want to live forever in a place where I’m only valuable if I become one of you.”

Silence.

Will stepped back, tears running freely now.

“If the only way I’m safe is by changing what I am… then I was never safe to begin with.”

The wind stilled.

The crown dimmed.

The gods did not rage. Did not plead.

They stood there—gods, kings, immortals—outshone by a mortal who simply knew who he was.

Will turned away.

And far below the clouds, somewhere in the mortal world he longed to return to, the sky opened into rain.

Real rain.

The Decision to Leave

Hearth and Freedom

Will stood before them—not dressed in divine robes, not crowned, not glowing.

Just Will.
A man in worn clothes, his hair damp with storm-swept air, his eyes red but clear.

And he said the words plainly:

“I want to go home.”

The divine hall quieted instantly.

Not the usual hush of reverence. Not awe.
Shock.

Apollo was the first to speak, stepping forward. “Will… Earth is dull. Diminished. You’ll feel it the moment you return. It won’t hold you.”

“I’m not looking to be held,” Will said. “I’m looking to live.”

Athena’s voice was sharp. “You’re making an emotional decision. Illogical. Reactive.”

“Maybe,” Will said. “But it’s mine.”

Ares growled low in his chest, fists clenched. “You’ll be vulnerable. You won’t last a decade without being torn apart by the world.”

Will looked him in the eye. “Then let me be torn.”

Poseidon’s voice was softer, pleading. “You were peaceful in my waters.”

“I was tranquil,” Will replied. “But I wasn’t me.”

Even Hera—unshakable, composed—said nothing at first. Her lips parted, but no argument came. Not one she could make that wouldn’t sound like control.

And Zeus, looming at the edge, said only, “You’ll regret this.”

Will didn’t flinch. “Then let me.”

A long silence stretched like a bowstring ready to snap.

And then—

A gentle warmth filled the chamber.

The scent of hearthwood. A soft, flickering glow. A presence humble enough to be missed but impossible to ignore once felt.

Hestia stepped forward.

She had said nothing throughout this ordeal. Had made no claims, no offers, no demands.

Now, she stood beside Will.

Not to shield. Not to speak for him.

But to stand with him.

“You forget,” she said, her voice warm as bread fresh from the oven, “that love is not proven through possession. It is proven through letting go.”

The flames around her flickered with calm certainty.

“You have all built temples and thrones and battles around him. But he only ever asked for a place to be.”

She looked at Will. “And he already had one. Before any of us found him.”

The gods didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So Hestia continued:

“The hearth is not a prison. It is a home. And a home does not keep—it welcomes. When, and if, he chooses to return.”

She touched Will’s shoulder. Her hand was warm. Steady.

Will nodded, tears rising again—but this time, not from pain.

“Thank you.”

They let him go.

Not with celebration. Not with thunder.

But with a quiet that felt… sacred.

Each god, in their own way, left something behind:

• Apollo wove a song into Will’s heartbeat—silent, but there, when he needed clarity.

• Athena gave him perfect memory of what he’d learned.

• Hades whispered to the dead not to trouble him unless called.

• Poseidon granted the tides around his home gentle mood.

• Hera laid a blessing on his roof: that it would never fall in storm.

• Ares left strength in his spine for when fear came.

• Zeus—pride wounded but present—let lightning avoid his name.

• And Aphrodite, quietly, tucked love into a future still undefined.

Will stepped back through the gate.

He breathed in Earth’s air—imperfect, sharp, real.

His dogs barked wildly when he returned.

And that night, alone beneath a very mortal sky, Will Graham sat on his porch with his hands curled around a mug of cheap coffee.

And for the first time in what felt like years, no one watched him.

He was not divine.

He was not untouchable.

He was just Will.

And he was free.

The Hidden Consequence

The Quiet That Follows

For a while, it was perfect.

Will woke to birdsong and barking dogs, the morning sun bleeding through his bedroom window like honey through gauze. The sheets were tangled and real. The coffee was too bitter. The porch creaked under his weight.

He breathed like he hadn’t in months.

There were no scrolls. No glowing doors. No nymphs folding his shirts. The divine realm felt like a fever dream—vivid, disorienting, and distant. It almost felt like he could forget.

And the gods, strangely, honored his wish.

There were no visitations. No voices in his dreams. Just silence. Reverent, or perhaps ashamed. Will didn’t know.

He focused on the mundane.

Classes. Walks. His dogs. Behavioral studies. The rustle of paper pages instead of prophecies. He fell back into routine like a man resurfacing from deep water.

But the calm didn’t last.

It began small.

A warmth in his chest. Then in his spine. Then lower, deeper—settling like an ember in his core.

He started waking up in the middle of the night with tears on his face and lullabies echoing in languages he couldn’t translate. He dreamed of small hands gripping his fingers. Laughter that sounded familiar. Eyes like mirrors of gods he had left behind.

His sense of empathy—once his gift, once his curse—began to distort. He felt others again, but not people. Not animals.

Possibilities.

He stood too long in front of strangers’ babies, not understanding why they made him ache. He pressed a hand to his abdomen in the shower and flinched—not in pain, but recognition.

His body was not his own. Not fully. Not anymore.

And the gods? Silent still. Perhaps waiting. Perhaps watching.

Chapter Text

The Illusion of Stillness

It had been weeks.

Long, golden days filled with simple things—coffee that burned his tongue, the rustle of paper pages, wet noses nudging his hand for attention. Will rose with the sun and slept before midnight. He stacked books into uneven towers, walked barefoot through the woods, and fed his dogs by memory.

His phone rang sometimes. Emails came. Professors reached out cautiously—curious but respectful. He answered when he felt strong. Ignored them when he didn’t.

The divine world had receded like a tide that finally obeyed the shore.

No letters appeared on his porch.

No music in his dreams.

No sudden gusts of wind that carried the scent of prophecy.

They watched. He could still feel it—a faint pressure behind the eyes, like being in a room with a mirror that wasn’t quite empty—but they didn’t interfere.

It was the closest he’d been to peace in months.

Will stood in the middle of his small cabin, barefoot on creaking floorboards, a cup of lukewarm tea in his hands. The dogs sprawled on the rug, twitching in sleep. A jazz record played softly, crackling through the speaker like it had its own memories.

He closed his eyes and listened.

No whispers. No visions. No lightning. Just the sound of rain tapping on the roof, slow and steady.

He had, somehow, endured.
And now he was… healing.

Or so he believed.

He took long walks in the woods again.

He refilled bird feeders. He wrote in a journal. He sat on the porch at dusk with a dog’s head in his lap, watching fireflies blink their soft language into the night.

Sometimes, his hand drifted to his stomach.

The warmth was still there—persistent, subtle—but no longer frightening.

He told himself it was memory. Nothing more.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t write it down.

And the gods said nothing.

For now, Will was just a man again.

And the world, despite all it knew, allowed the illusion to hold.

But illusions do not last.

Not when Olympus is involved.

Not when change has already taken root.

And somewhere, just beyond the treeline, something old was stirring—watching, waiting, growing.

The First Signs

Whispers Beneath the Surface

It began with dreams.

Not divine ones—no golden temples, no singing gods. These were quieter. Stranger.

Will dreamt of open fields he’d never walked through, bathed in twilight. Of cradles rocking gently in empty rooms. Of a soft voice humming a lullaby in a language older than Earth.

He woke each time with a start, sweating through his sheets, hand resting protectively over his stomach.

He told himself it was nothing.

But then came the fatigue.

He’d always been tired—empathetic strain, emotional weight, restless nights. But this was different. Bone-deep exhaustion that made his legs tremble by midday. He’d catch himself sitting down on the floor without realizing it, staring out the window with no memory of how long he’d been there.

And then the nausea.

It wasn’t constant. Just sudden waves. The smell of coffee—his lifeline—made his stomach turn. He started craving things he never ate: honey, fruit, cold milk, warm broth. Soft things. Nourishing things.

And through it all… the world began to change.

One morning, he stepped outside and found the flowers along his porch blooming—lush and bright despite the deepening chill of early autumn.

Another day, a dozen birds gathered on the sill outside his kitchen window, silent and still. Just watching him. Their heads tilted in eerie unison as he moved around the room.

The air around the cabin warmed without reason. A chill breeze would pass, but the moment it touched his skin, it softened—like it remembered who he was.

His dogs grew clingy. They followed him from room to room, pressing their heads into his hands, resting their muzzles gently on his belly when he lay down.

Will finally caved and went to a doctor.

A real one.

A mortal.

A tired, kind woman who tapped her fingers across his ribs and shone lights in his eyes and asked careful questions.

“You’re under a lot of stress,” she said, gently. “Physically, everything looks fine. Hormones are stable. No fever. No infection. If I didn’t know better, I’d say… your body thinks it’s preparing for something. Like nesting.”

Will didn’t speak.

She smiled awkwardly. “Probably nothing. Rest. Eat well. Maybe talk to someone. It’s not uncommon to feel… disoriented after emotional trauma.”

He thanked her.

Left quietly.

And never went back.

That night, he sat in front of the mirror again.

His reflection was the same—mostly. His face pale. His eyes darkened with lack of sleep. But his body…

He lifted his shirt and stared at the soft swell beginning to form low on his abdomen. Barely there. But he could feel it. Warm. Pulsing faintly with something that wasn’t his heartbeat.

“This isn’t stress,” he whispered.

“It’s starting.”

Outside, the flowers bloomed beneath frost.

The birds didn’t fly away.

And the wind, once cold, curled around the cabin like a lullaby.

A Flame That Does Not Burn

It was just past midnight.

The dogs were asleep, curled beside the fireplace. The house was quiet, lit only by the warm flicker of logs that popped softly in the hearth.

Will stood at the kitchen sink, a half-drunk glass of water in one hand, staring blankly through the dark window. The silence felt heavy. Like the moment before something irreversible.

He felt it before he saw her.

Not a presence that demanded attention—but one that welcomed it. A warmth in the air. A subtle pull toward safety.

When he turned, she was already there.

Hestia.

She sat quietly at his kitchen table, hands folded, no glow, no grand entrance. Just a simple cloak draped over soft robes the color of ash and clay. The same clothes a grandmother might wear tending soup. Her eyes were ember-bright and impossibly kind.

The dogs didn’t growl. They rose and walked to her slowly—one by one—and lay at her feet.

Will didn’t speak.

She nodded gently. “It’s alright. I won’t stay long.”

He stared at her. “You’re the only one who hasn’t tried to own me.”

Hestia smiled, but there was no triumph in it. Only sadness.

“I keep the fire,” she said. “Not the chains.”

He moved to sit across from her, glass trembling in his hand.

“Something’s changing,” he said. “I feel it. I know it.”

Hestia looked down at her hands.

Then, quietly:

“You carry more than memory, Will.”

She met his eyes, full of ancient weight.

“You carry legacy.”

His throat tightened.

“You mean a child.”

She nodded once.

“Children.”

Will’s breath caught in his chest.

“No. That’s not—” He shook his head. “I never—I didn’t consent. I told them—”

“I know,” she said softly. “And I believe you.”

He stood, pushing away from the table, pacing across the kitchen tiles.

“Then how—why—?”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t waver either.

“The gods had always acted in ways mortals cannot comprehend. They couldn’t have you, Will. Not entirely. Not without breaking what they loved.”

She stood now too, slow and calm, as if approaching a frightened animal.

“So instead… they blessed you.”

She stepped closer, one hand out, not touching.

“Not out of cruelty. Not in anger. But in that desperate, godly way that believes giving is the same as sharing.”

Will turned away, tears stinging his eyes.

“I said no.”

“I know.”

“Then why did my body change?”

Hestia’s voice broke slightly.

“Because your soul said yes.”

Will froze.

“You understand them. Even when you try not to. Your empathy doesn’t just read pain, it receives it. And when gods reached for you—blessed you—your body responded.”

A long silence followed.

Only the crackle of the fireplace filled the space between them.

Finally, Will turned back to her.

“Can I stop it?”

Hestia’s eyes shimmered like coals.

“I don’t know.”

He dropped into the chair, shaking.

She came around the table slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder—not to hold, not to press. Just to stay.

“They will come back,” she said. “Not with thunder. Not with demands. But with hope. And you must decide who you are—before they try to decide for you.”

That night, after Hestia was gone, Will sat alone at the kitchen table.

His hand drifted once again to the soft, warm pulse beneath his ribs.

And for the first time, he didn’t just feel fear.

He felt something far more dangerous.

Love.

The Truth Comes Out

The Cost of Divinity

The next morning, Will didn’t sleep.

He sat curled in the armchair by the fire, blanket draped over his shoulders, the warmth of Hestia’s presence already faded—but not forgotten. Her words echoed in his skull like footsteps in an empty hall.

He carries legacy.
He never chose it.
And something inside him is growing.

As dawn bled across the sky in thin pink ribbons, Hestia returned.

She appeared in the doorway as if she had never left, her expression tender and solemn, the scent of ash and baked bread clinging to the air around her.

Will didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“There’s more, isn’t there.”

Hestia exhaled softly. “Yes.”

She stepped inside, folding her hands before her. “I didn’t tell you everything last night because… I didn’t want to crush what little peace you’d found.”

Will finally looked at her. His voice was low. Shaking.

“Then do it now.”

She nodded once.

“Hera and Athena did not wait for your choice.”

Will’s breath hitched.

“They acted while the pact held, during moments when you were open—unguarded. They shaped life from fragments of you, placed within divine essence. You were never touched by them. But gods don’t need to touch to leave their will behind.”

Will closed his eyes, the edges of his vision swimming. “That’s not… that’s not love.”

“No,” Hestia said quietly. “It’s want.”

Will stood abruptly, stumbling back from the fireplace. “I trusted— I trusted that they heard me. That they let me go.”

“They did let you go, Will. But they left something behind first.”

He pressed a hand to his stomach, jaw clenched, heart thudding.

“And the others?”

Hestia looked away.

That was answer enough.

But she said it anyway, soft and cutting:

“They gave you their presence. Their power. Their attention. Each of them left a piece of themselves—sometimes knowingly, sometimes not. A gesture. A dream. A blessing that took root. Your body… absorbed it. Molded it into more.”

Will staggered back a step.

His breath came fast. Not in fear—but rage.

“They made me into a cradle.”

“They saw you as sacred,” she said. “But they forgot that sacred things are not theirs to take.”

He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“They called it love. They called it love—and it was violation.”

Hestia didn’t argue.

She stepped forward, eyes gleaming not with fire—but with tears.

“I warned them. I told them you were not something to claim. But gods don’t listen, Will. They rarely listen to mortals… until it’s too late.”

He sank into a chair, body trembling with fury and grief.

“I said no. I said no. And they still—”

“I know.”

“They blessed me,” he spat. “Like it was kindness. Like it was some divine gift.”

“It was selfishness,” Hestia said. “Wrapped in awe. Given by beings who’ve forgotten that worship is not consent.”

The fire crackled.

Will sat in silence, staring at the floor.

Then, barely audible:

“I didn’t want to be a god.”

“You’re not,” Hestia said gently.

“You’re human. And what they did wasn’t meant to change that.”

She hesitated, then added:

“But what grows within you… is not just human either.”

Will looked up slowly.

There was no storm outside. No divine presence at the door.

But he knew.

They were watching.

Every one of them.

And now?

They would have to answer.

Confrontation on Sacred Ground

The air in Delphi was still.

Not dead, not abandoned—listening.

The sacred ground thrummed with a quiet power, a crossroads between realms where time thinned and truth echoed louder than anywhere else in the world. Mortals rarely walked here now, but the stone knew their footsteps. The gods had never stopped coming.

Will stood alone on the platform at the edge of the ruined temple, the wind tugging at his coat, his hands clenched at his sides.

He had called them.

Not with a prayer. Not with a plea.

But with will—sharp and unwavering. A demand shaped into silence, sent through the space between worlds.

And they came.

One by one, they appeared in flickers of power, gods converging on neutral earth. No thrones. No fanfare. Just presence.

Hera. Athena. Apollo. Poseidon. Ares. Hades. Zeus.

Even Aphrodite came, silent and unreadable, standing apart from the others.

They formed a half-circle around him, their expressions ranging from curiosity to guilt to unease.

But Will wasn’t afraid.

He didn’t kneel.

He didn’t bow.

He looked each of them in the eye, and he spoke.

“I’m not here to beg for mercy. I’m not here to plead for understanding. I’m here to make sure you hear me.”

They listened.

Even now, they felt the difference in him. Something rooted, growing. Mortal, yes—but seeded with godlight. A vessel, but not empty. Not broken.

“To Hera. To Athena.”

He turned to them, gaze sharp.

“You took something that wasn’t yours. You created life with me without my consent. You saw power and beauty and claimed it in the name of strategy and legacy.”

Athena flinched. Hera’s eyes narrowed—but neither spoke.

Not yet.

“You acted with cold calculation and called it necessity. You crossed a line, and you know it.”

Then, turning to the others:

“And you—Apollo. Poseidon. Ares. Hades. Zeus.”

They straightened under the weight of his voice.

“You said you loved me. You gifted me light and warmth and fury and silence and promise. You gave me so much—but never the one thing that matters.”

His voice didn’t rise, but it cut like a blade.

“You never asked me what I wanted.”

Apollo stepped forward first, eyes soft. “We didn’t know it would happen this way. The blessings were meant to comfort—”

Will held up a hand.

“Then you should have known better. You’re gods.”

Poseidon’s voice followed, deeper. “You were hurting. We didn’t want to burden you further—”

“So you made choices for me.”

Zeus’s tone was edged with pride even now. “We gave you power, protection, a place among us.”

“I didn’t ask for a place.”

Ares grunted. “You’re stronger than you realize.”

“And you think that justifies using me as a forge?”

Hades, quiet as shadow, spoke last.

“I regret it.”

Will paused.

Hades’ voice was sincere. Low. Unhidden.

“Not because I don’t cherish what was left behind… but because I didn’t wait. I let longing speak instead of love.”

The others looked away.

A rare thing: a god admitting fault without disguise.

Will nodded once—acknowledging, but not absolving.

He stepped forward, voice firm but no longer trembling.

“What’s inside me now… I’ll carry it. I’ll raise them. On my terms. As a human. As a father. Not a pedestal.”

He looked at Hera. Then Athena.

“You don’t get to shape their purpose before they’re even born.”

At last, Athena spoke. Her voice was steady, but quieter than usual.

“We miscalculated.”

Hera’s eyes flicked toward the sky. “We underestimated you.”

“No,” Will said. “You dehumanized me.”

A long silence fell.

The wind stirred.

The temple stones, listening, did not crack or collapse—but they held the weight of his words like scripture.

And when Will finally turned to leave, not one god stopped him.

They let him walk away.

Not in defeat.

But in recognition.

The Pact of Support

Terms Made by a Mortal

The days following the confrontation at Delphi passed in silence—but not the oppressive kind that choked. This was something different.

A clearing.

A space made by truth.

Will no longer felt like something trapped. He still carried weight, yes—still dreamed of laughter he had not yet heard, of hands that had not yet touched the world—but he was grounded. No longer prey. No longer passive.

So when he called the gods again—this time, not to a temple or sacred mountain, but to the woods behind his own home—it was not a summons.

It was an invitation.

They came.

Hera. Apollo. Poseidon. Athena. Hades. Hestia. Ares. Even Zeus, watching from the edge.

They waited for him to speak.

Will stepped forward, hands steady, shoulders straight.

“This is not a negotiation.”

“I will raise these children. I will teach them what it means to be human, even if they are not only that. I will give them names that are theirs. I will raise them in my world.”

No god interrupted.

Will met each of their eyes.

“You may be their divine blood. But I am their father.”

Silence. Then—slowly—acknowledgment.

Hera stepped forward first. She did not smile, but there was something close to reverence in her voice.

“You will not raise them in a shack.”

She waved her hand.

In a breath of golden air, land unfolded behind Will. A vast estate—forests, gardens, a home larger than he needed but not grand in the way of Olympus. Spacious. Safe. Surrounded by runes that shimmered only to divine eyes.

“No god may cross this threshold with harm in their heart,” Hera said. “It is yours. Not ours.”

Apollo stepped forward next, golden eyes soft.

“You will not suffer.”

He raised a hand over Will’s heart and stomach, and a warm light spilled through him—soothing, balancing, aligning.

“You will bear them safely. Without pain. Without danger. You will carry joy, not fear.”

Poseidon followed.

He opened his palm, and a small chest appeared—ornate, crusted with coral and pearls. It pulsed faintly with magic.

“It’s treasure, yes,” he said. “But also protection. For the children. And for you. Use it only if you need.”

Athena approached, silent but intense.

She knelt—not fully, but enough—and placed a scroll into Will’s hands.

“Knowledge. Not of war. Not of Olympus. Of parenting. Learning. Of mortal wisdom long forgotten. Read it when they cry and you don’t know why. Read it when you are tired and doubt yourself.”

Hades lingered last.

He did not touch Will. He only looked into his eyes.

“If any of them ever fall,” he said softly, “they will not be lost. They will not wander. They will come home. I will ensure it.”

Finally, Hestia stepped forward.

She smiled—and this time, it reached her eyes.

“You will not do this alone.”

And from behind her stepped three nymphs—gentle-eyed, steady-handed, dressed in earth-toned robes.

“They will help you raise the children. Feed them. Soothe them. Teach them joy. They will serve not you, but the home. They serve love. That is all.”

Will’s throat tightened.

He nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” he said.

Not because he was grateful for gifts.

But because—for once—they were given with no price.

The gods left.

No claims. No demands.

And Will remained.

Standing in the heart of a sacred forest that now belonged to him, the fire of his children growing warm in his belly, the quiet laughter of something beautiful not yet born echoing just behind his thoughts.

Becoming a Father

The Claim of the Heart

The house was vast.

Too large for one man. Too quiet for now.

But every room had been shaped by intent, not grandeur. Fireplaces that burned warm but soft. Hallways lined with open windows and curtains that moved with the breeze. A kitchen built for shared meals. A garden that never wilted.

The nymphs had already begun to settle in—one humming as she arranged herbs on a shelf, another lighting candles in corners where shadow gathered. They moved like they’d always belonged.

Will didn’t give orders. He didn’t need to.

The house was not a palace. It was a hearth.

And it was his.

He stood in the center of it all—the heart of the estate, where the high wooden beams arched above him like open arms. The light from the skylight above spilled down in golden patterns across the polished floor.

He rested a hand against the curve of his stomach.

Still slight. Still quiet.

But now… undeniable.

A flutter stirred beneath his palm—quick, delicate, like wings brushing the inside of him.

He gasped.

Not from fear.

From awe.

He pressed his hand firmer, the heat of life blooming gently outward.

He didn’t know which child it was—didn’t know if it was Apollo’s warmth or Athena’s clarity, Poseidon's calm or Hades’ silence, Hera’s legacy, Ares’ fire, or Zeus’s weight.

But it didn’t matter.

Because when he spoke, his voice trembled—but did not waver.

“You’re mine.”

“No matter who your other parents are… you’re mine.”

The words filled the air like prayer.

And the child within moved again—stronger this time. An answer.

Outside, the wind stilled.

In the garden, the first star of evening shimmered against a sky that waited to meet them.

And in the quiet of a house no god could enter without permission, a mortal man stood at the edge of the divine unknown…

…and chose to love it anyway.