26. OLYMPIUS

OLYMPIUS

The Present

T HROUGH sorrowful eyes, Olympius gazed downward from the cold night sky toward the unfamiliar cityscape. He floated effortlessly in the air, carried by his godly power, beneath dark clouds that loomed overhead, threatening to soon unleash their payload of moisture upon the illuminated Toronto Skyline. Though unbothered by chill temperatures, Olympius was not immune to getting wet, a state he did not care to be in while fully clothed.

The god wore basic straight-leg dark jeans, a simple white T-shirt, and a slate-grey bomber jacket, none of which were particularly waterproof. However, he stubbornly refused to move and find shelter should the rain come. He was exactly where he needed to be, positioned perfectly at a safe distance to watch his warrior-god.

Since Coriolanus’ departure from the club, the ancient Lord of the Night closely watched his movements from afar, having followed him to and from the bistro, around the waterfront, and then to the alley adorned with vibrant murals.

And now, Olympius hovered several kilometres above his beloved—and the mortal prey he kept at his side.

He could not help but silently scold himself for his one mistake that evening: having gotten too close along the Harbourfront earlier and foolishly allowing Coriolanus to detect him. Olympius had sensed his lover’s use of mental energy to uncover his presence but effortlessly blocked the psychic probe.

Still, he was not sure if he had acted fast enough to lay doubt in Coriolanus’ mind, that perhaps his senses were playing tricks on him, but once his beloved stopped searching after a minute, Olympius’ mind was set at ease. He had no plans to confront him tonight—or ever again.

Olympius watched in silence and with intense jealousy as his warrior-god made love to the mortal.

No, he knew that was too strong of an accusation. The act below him was not one of love or betrayal; it was merely feeding, which all immortals engaged in or ceased to exist. Still, the god’s heart ached to see his beloved tenderly embracing someone else. He definitely noticed that the prey’s appearance was uncomfortably similar to his own.

The resemblance only intensified the pain and longing within him, making him feel more distant and isolated than ever before.

Olympius wondered why Coriolanus was searching out prey that bore, however superficially, his likeness. Was he torturing himself for lost love, or was he symbolically punishing the Maker he no longer treasured over and over again every time he killed the quarry? Olympius did not want to know the answer.

Though he hated being separated by distance yet was unwilling to embrace or speak with Coriolanus, Olympius still found joy in seeing his beloved. The vast distance meant nothing to his godly sight.

But as it had been for countless centuries, any delight felt was always mixed with longing and sadness. Tonight was especially difficult, for Olympius knew this would be his final opportunity to see his beloved. Coriolanus’ forever unchanging masculine beauty radiated a luminous glow in the darkness; every curve of his perfect body was a work of art. Olympius held firm to this truth: he undoubtedly made a god of unequalled ferocity and magnificence.

As the realization fully sank in that this would be the last time he would witness such a sight, a profound melancholy washed over him.

Nearly two millennia had passed since Olympius last desired revenge against Rome, their empire eventually crumbling without his involvement. When the last vestiges of their ancient civilization turned to dust, leaving behind only derelict structures and broken statues, he had felt no sense of satisfaction.

His resentment towards the Olympians, at least the ones he held responsible for some of Coriolanus’ maddening behaviour, had also dwindled over time. He knew they sought no investment in his happiness or misery; everything they ever did was to satisfy their own selfish desires. So, what was the point in hating them?

Even considering the Olympians’ interference, Olympius eventually realized his arrogance and selfishness significantly contributed to his beloved’s abandonment of him. Without his warrior-god at his side, the once fiery passion for retribution gradually fizzled out, even for holding a grudge.

As Coriolanus once pointed out, Olympius lacked the skills to properly assemble and train an army for warfare. Learning the talents of humans psychically through their memories or absorbing the knowledge by drinking their blood did not necessarily provide a god with natural aptitude or ability. And it was not like he could easily acquire practical knowledge through training when he was limited by his inability to move about freely during the day.

Still, the thought of creating another warrior-god to serve his purpose never once crossed his mind. Coriolanus was irreplaceable to Olympius. He was more than a General or a weapon in his arsenal; he was his one true love, the other half of his soul.

Olympius eventually came to see that blood and fire would never win his beloved back, no matter how great the battle or the significance of the victory. Hate, vengeance, wrath, rage—all tasted like carrion in the ancient god’s mouth. He had not been the god of anything in ages. Titles and deification became meaningless to him once his warrior-god was no longer at his side.

With deep emotion, Olympius looked down upon the silver brooch attached to his jacket, which he long ago claimed for himself upon his Maker’s demise. Despite the passage of time, the ancient pin with its intricate detail still gleamed brilliantly in the moonlight.

As he tenderly ran his fingers over its surface, Olympius felt its cool metal against his skin, and the memories came flooding back. The brooch symbolized his immense power over the night, over darkness, worn with pride and, yes, even arrogance.

But now, it was a mere shadow of its former glory, reduced to a decorative accessory he wore only for nostalgia.

No longer able to withstand the unrelenting despair of an eternity without his soulmate’s love and companionship, Olympius had finally decided to confront the remaining Olympians and reveal his great crime: the destruction of his Maker.

Several ancient day gods, including mad Ares, were nearby in New York, merely an hour’s flight under their godly power to Toronto; they could arrive by dawn, the rising sun amplifying their power.

Not that Olympius would resist. He wanted them to destroy him and end his undying suffering. He longed for death. And by the dawn, it would come to him. He only needed to project his dark thoughts across land and lake and confess .

“He leaves,” Olympius whispered, seeing Coriolanus vacate the site below with a speed that would have made any mortal witness assume the god disappeared into thin air. “And you leave the prey alive?” Experiencing even a twinge of envy, or worse, scorn, which Olympius did, toward something as basic as Coriolanus showing tenderness towards another, even a mere mortal, still felt like a knife plunged into his heart.

In any event, the god had no intention of following his warrior-god further—this night or ever again.

Olympius quietly removed the moon brooch from his jacket and, without a moment’s hesitation, let it fall from his fingers. He observed its trajectory downward from his lofty position to where it finally landed in the alley near the mortal. The metal object was incredibly durable and suffered no significant abrasions upon impact with the asphalt. It was a Titan-crafted item, after all.

Olympius lamented that the inanimate object was much more resilient than his heart, a pathetic, broken thing.

The darkness, his only companion for ages, seemed to intensify around him as if closing in on him with the weight of the unspoken consequences of his intended action. But Olympius was resolved to carry out the deed.

Only as he was about to execute it, a familiar voice screamed out his name, causing him to—hesitate.