Olympians, Demigods and Rebels: The Chronicles of Greek Mythology, #2

By Michele Amitrani

Even gods can bleed…

 

In this collection the myths of three of the most defiant characters in Greek mythology—Persephone, Sisyphus and Orpheus—are retold like never before.

 

In Scion of Gaia, Persephone finds her mother's mind broken by madness. With the world withering and mortals dying by the thousands with every turn of the Sun, will the Queen of the Underworld stop the collapse of the world and save her mother from certain death, or will she be forced to pay her due to destiny by committing the ultimate crime?

 

In King of Defiance Sisyphus is a man sentenced by the Olympians to pay for his disobedience by pushing a boulder up a mountain in the depths of Tartarus until the end of time. But prophecies and omens say he must face the gods and that resilience will be his best ally against them. When an action meant to save his kingdom brings Sisyphus against the most powerful of the Olympians, the battle for his soul truly begins.

 

And in Song of Forever, we meet young Princess Macaria, who turns to stories of love and loss among mortals to seek solace in a world without happy endings. After the queen assigns Macaria more responsibility in the ruling of the Netherworld, the young goddess learns that justice is swift but seldom fair. When the mortal Orpheus breaches the Underworld to retrieve his wife, he threatens the very balance of life and death. With Orpheus' destiny in her hands, will she choose what history and duty say is necessary—or follow her heart?

 

How far are our heroes willing to go to break the status quo and claim their freedom?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Amitrani
• Release date: Oct 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781988770406

Book preview

Olympians, Demigods and Rebels

OLYMPIANS, DEMIGODS AND REBELS

A MYTHOLOGICAL FANTASY COLLECTION

MICHELE AMITRANI

Copyright © 2022 by Michele Amitrani

All rights reserved.

No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First Edition 2022

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-988770-40-6

Published by Michele Amitrani.

Cover Design by 100 Covers.

CONTENTS

Scion of Gaia

1. Forgotten Blood

2. The Roots of Memory

3. The Silent Death

4. The Fire that Sears the Land

5. Daring Death

6. Cage of Fear

7. The Weeds of the Heart

8. A Statement of Defiance

9. The White Narcissus

10. Kingdom of Shades

11. A Graveyard of Green

12. Season of Destiny

King of Defiance

1. The King and the Poet

2. The Forge of Destiny

3. Kingdom of Cows

4. The Spring of Discord

5. The Place of Power

6. The Broken Wheel

7. Rebellious Soul

8. The Trickster King

Song of Forever

1. Rising Notes

2. Heavy is the Crown

3. Bleeding the Music

4. The Unwanted Hearing

5. The Goddess and the Musician

6. What is Left Behind

7. Twice Dead

8. A Queen’s Duty

9. Playing by the Rules

Acknowledgments

About the Author

SCION OF GAIA

BOOK I

1

FORGOTTEN BLOOD

Isweep my gaze from horizon to horizon, taking in the damage caused by my absence. The world is withered. The lakes and rivers are empty, choked by dust. Patches of desert cover vast parts of the land like a stifling mantle, and carcasses of dead animals lie everywhere; the smell of death is thick in the air. 

When I feel my mother’s presence in the distance, I sense her powers are maimed, a distant echo of their former glory.

I trek forward, following the invisible pull to my blood, searching for the only goddess who can undo all of this.

Later—I don’t know how much time passes—I find her sitting on the dusty ground beside the ruin of a tree, the bark pale gray, thin and rough, gnawed by time. She is covered in a wrinkled tunic, soiled and ragged, the fabric torn. Her once-lush dark hair is heavy with dirt. Her stare is lost in the distance, hostage to the horizon.

Mother?

She does not look at me, does not even turn.

"Mother?" Louder this time. 

She remains silent, her breathing barely audible.

I step up to her, touch her shoulder lightly. Can you hear me? It’s me. I pause, wait out the silence, feel the dread rising in quick pulses.

She blinks and turns her head. Two pools of blackness stare at me, dark and cold like the unreachable heart of the sea. Her lips part; they are cracked and dry. I wait, but she gazes at me, mouth open, wordless.

I sit beside her and take her hand. Everything is going to be all right, I say, the words stumbling in quick succession. I’m here now.

She swallows; her eyes are unfocused. Who … She trails off, and the wrinkles on her forehead are unsettling. This time, with effort, her eyes focus on me. Who are you?

Realization dawns upon me, and the pain of it is sharp and sudden, a blade buried in my chest: she does not recognize me.

Her question knocks the breath out of me. No daughter believes a mother could forget her.

What is the answer I should give? I don’t know what darkness has taken her. What if the truth will unravel her mind further? I cannot afford to lose her.

I’m a nymph. I keep my voice even and force myself to smile. It’s a frail thing, but it seems to soothe her. 

A nymph. Someone familiar and reassuring. An easy lie to believe.

Her eyes regard my narrow body, my long, blond hair streaming down my shoulders. Her posture relaxes, and she returns the smile. What brings you to me, daughter of the forest?

I shift beside her, relieved at her belief. I was sent to fetch you, I say. You must be cold, sitting alone here. I can offer you the warmth of a spring, and strong walls to keep the wind at bay. I study her expression. What do you say?

My mother looks around, as if only then realizing where she is. Her eyes return to me. Yes, she says, shivering. Her skin is pale and marked by deep scratches. It is very cold.

I offer her my hand. This way. 

She hesitates. I can see the unease in the lines on her brow, in the tautness of her neck. I was right to be wary of her condition. She is worse than I thought possible.

Do you want the cold to stop? I ask, in the gentle but firm tone used to question a child. 

An option. A choice. She looks at me and bobs her head.

Then come. I offer my hand again. 

One … two … five heartbeats later she rises, and her icy fingers latch with mine.

I lead her away from the ruin of the world, from the fallen tree and the dry ground teeming with flies buzzing over carcasses. 

As we walk through the slow collapse of nature, I know that death is spreading like wildfire: the earth is faltering, and mortals are dying by the thousands with each turning of the sun.

2

THE ROOTS OF MEMORY

Ibring her home. 

The palace of Henna has not changed since the last time I saw it. It is as imposing as ever, its ivory white walls impossibly tall, smooth as silk.

The golden gates are open, manned by no one. As we move inside, my eyes survey the central courtyard. Nobody is here to greet us, only a larger host of flies, feasting on crushed orange fruit splashed on the stony ground.

I walk at a slow pace, trying to catch the faintest sound. No nymphs sing, no satyrs play their flutes, no laughter from the spirits of the forest. Not even the singing of birds. 

Henna is a hostage of silence.

My mother straggles behind, looking about with inquisitive eyes that drink in her surroundings. Her expression gives way to surprise and wonder. She does not know where she is.

Inside the palace proper, I glimpse my past embedded in my memory.

It is hard to ignore the piercing pain driving into my heart as I study this familiar place and feel nothing but void. There are echoes of my life here, of my childhood and of my youth. They seem so distant now, and vague, like the leftover image of the sun behind the closed curtains of my eyelids.

It was a simple time, then, when a young goddess was allowed to be unaware of the true face of the world.

I remember long days spent playing with dryads, spitting grape pits at each other, laughing when one landed inside our cleavage. The cool breeze whispered the secrets of nature as I learned the true source of my powers. The sun was warm on my bare shoulders when my mother taught me to speak with trees and to make the flowers bloom; which word would change their color and which would make them grow stronger.

I was given gifts when my Age of Maturity approached: two Seeds of Dawn, rare treasures from Gaia, the ancient Mother-Earth, stored safely somewhere only my mother knew. They were the ones she used to start a forest, or to spring an entire field in a day’s span.

The memory of that day surfaces, fresh as spring water.

You will do it, this time. She brought me to Africa, the sun blinding above us. My mother pointed to a patch of land close to a desert that was claiming the northern side of Libya. The desert will grow vast if we do not stop its advance. She put the two Seeds of Dawn into my palm. They were sky blue and the size of a ripe cherry.

I looked at her in dismay. I cannot, Mother. This is beyond my powers. I need your help.

She shook her head. You know the words. You have the power within you. The only thing you lack is confidence. Practice will make up for that.

Fear, like choking doubt, paralyzed me. What if I fail?

My mother smiled. What if you succeed?

I looked at the desert sitting on the horizon, a light yellow monster that gloved the land as far as the eye could see. I was trembling, dark thoughts swirling in my head.

Daughter. The comforting weight of her hands on my shoulders. Think of it not as a task you have never accomplished, but as something you have done a million times. Think! The shepherding of water from one river to the next, tending the roots of an ancient tree. Did you get those things right the first time?

I shook my head.

And yet you are still standing, and the sun is rising. I gave you two seeds for a reason. You can do it wrong. You can fail. It is allowed. The biggest failure of all is to never try.

She was right.

I struggled the first time I tried to embed the seed of power inside the land. I almost lost it. But I didn’t. I felt the sparkle of life germinating when it took root and did not die as I had feared. It stood its ground and sprouted strong roots, from which new plants rose. A legion of trees soon stood before the desert. They were followed by others, and in a few days a forest was born. My first forest.

Yes, there are memories here in Henna that make me who I am.

And in all those bits of my past I remember my mother’s shining green eyes, following me. We were always together. 

Later, I learned this was unusual among our kind. Other goddesses entrusted raising their offspring to tutors or lesser gods. Not my mother. She did not allow others to feed me or to dress me. Not even to clean me. 

She shared my bed when dark dreams besieged my sleep; she soothed my worries. She was always there for me.

Do you know why you are so special?

She asked that question not far from a lagoon. Dryads and Naiads chased each other on the edges of my vision, laughing and singing. My mother had just taught me how to put to rest a dying tree so that its power could be used and passed on to others.

Special? My word lingered in the air for a while. I did not know what she meant.

"Yes, daughter. Special. Her hands stroked the purple petals of an iris. She looked at me for a moment, shadows pooling around her eyes. You are the only child I’ll ever have."

An interlude of silence brought the world to a halt. The wind paused its blowing. The nymph’s laugh was so far away it was barely audible now.

Her eyes became downcast. Her breath was sharp. She pressed a hand to her chest, her expression pained.

Mother? I had never seen her like that. Do you feel ill?

You will have no sisters, no brothers. It looked like she wanted to rip her heart free. Eileithyia will grant me no second child.

Eileithyia. Even at that age, I knew she was the goddess of childbirth and was regarded as stark and cold, a divinity who spent much time with the Fates, spinning with them the threads of destiny for gods and men.

My mother swallowed, and I saw the flower she was holding bleeding out its color, heartbeat after raging heartbeat.

She let out a heavy breath. Your father is nothing but a name in your life. She straightened and let the flower drop. I am the only family you will ever have. Do you understand?

Her eyes pinned me in place. Yes, Mother. I understand.

A child’s answer; plain and blunt. I did not read the story in between those words, could not feel the bitterness nestled inside them.

My mother’s lips parted, then closed. When she spoke again, her voice was firmer. Many of our kind will tell you I raised you wrong, that my closeness to you is shameful. Do not listen to them. They are fools and do not know how precious you are to me. I love you. Everything else is dust.

Her hands held my wrists with the strength of the deep roots of an ancient tree. Never forget that.

This place is familiar.

My mother’s words yank me from the shadows of my past.

I turn with a quick jerk and find her wild eyes sweeping the empty courtyard. 

Have I already been here?

Familiar. A fluttering feeling in my belly, the soaring spring of hope.

Yes, I blurt. I hold my eagerness at bay, hoping a memory will surface, and then another, until her mind is restored to its full self. What do you remember?

Her face is conflicted and the silence stretches. In the end she shakes her head and says, I—I do not know. It was there, for a moment. An image, I think. A thought. It’s gone now.

This is your home, I say, my teeth hard against one another. Your palace. We used to live here. Do you remember? 

Home? She repeats the word as if tasting an exotic food, spiced and foreign. No, she mutters, her face sagging. I do not.

My hope seeps out, like an oak tree dripping sap. I want to say something harsh, born out of frustration. At the last moment, I hold my tongue. No. Forcing her answer will do no good. Her mind is fragile. She needs more time.

Come, I say, taking her hand. She does not fight me as I lead her forward. The spring is not far. You will feel better after the warm embrace of water.

We walk down a narrow corridor flanked by tapestries depicting the Sky-Father Zeus fighting giants and monsters. The pavement is marble, pearl white with dark-gray venations spanning like thin branches. We reach a vast hall in the east wing of the palace. In the center, the fading light of sunset pours in from an oval-shaped