a hundred days or more,
but for Gods it was effortless.
Within moments of my suggestion
thousands of torches had been formed
and handed to the army behind us.
And this was when we began our climb.
From above, heavy marble pillars
fell past us, and the smell of sweet
ambrosian God-blood grew thick.
I felt a sickness as I climbed
and the smell of ichor and iron
grew stronger, reminding me of
Tartarus, where my father was trapped.
I was climbing a mountain full of his blood.
I pushed this thought away brutally
as the climb grew steeper
and we had to use our hands
as much as our legs to rise.
Finally, my hand reached up
and I touched cold, smooth floor.
Olympus Was Burning
When Hermes described this
he had failed to mention
the sheer scale of the carnage.
Red and gold blood caked the floor.
The Gods were immortal
but the giants were numerous
and only a few massive bodies lay
among the crumbling
marble of immaculately made
