Chapter 1
No god would have guessed that an Athenian warrior away from home would dare to stop the cataclysm they caused. When he stepped foot on the rocky beginnings of their mountain, the earth shook in a manner not dissimilar from the wrath of Poseidon against seaside cities. King of them all, Zeus, spoke to him.
“Halt! Retract your boots from the mountain and be spared!”
The warrior replied, “Come, stop me yourself!”
Zeus fell silent and the warrior continued. He travelled for a short while until he reached a small, soft area, blessed by an olive tree and cursed with the surroundings of jagged rock. The grass was calm and gentle, so he rested for the first time. Sleep could not come to him, for it was soon that three men came before him.
The warrior twisted his head upwards to behold not only an Olympian god with an iron leg and dark, murky robes, but two other men forged of bronze. Their arms were angular, their shoulders broad and bladed, their hands twisted and spat with golden steam, and their glowing disc eyes stared at the warrior.
“Retreat or face the might of Hephaestus and his unstoppable automatons!” the god in murky robes announced.
“Your creations are not unstoppable, Lord Hephaestus. When I kill them, you will be pacified, for I have two legs, and you just one. If you stand down, you and your creations will remain on this mountain and shall not be cut to live with Hades.”
“Fool! Automatons, be faithful and attack!”
The two brutes lumbered and shuffled towards the warrior, who drew his sword from its decorated sheath. It glimmered in the sun and moon, both of which were present in the sky, and sang with a voice like a military march. He brandished it carefully at the automatons, and when one came near, he struck it across the neck.
The sword had once upon a time cut through a man’s arm in one swipe, and the warrior often remarked that it could slice through pure rock without shuddering. Upon striking the automaton’s neck, the iron of the blade shattered into a hundred pieces and the handle shook itself away from its master. The warrior dodged the assailant before it could begin its attack on him and ducked away to a faraway spring.
As he breathed heavily and stared at himself in the reflection of the mountainous water pool, he noticed a being in the area. He reached to draw his sword to grasp only air.
“Who goes there?” he asked frantically.
“Be calm, warrior, let me heal you.”
The woman’s voice soothed the warrior’s flaming soul and warmth covered his neck. He had not realised, but a large gash had been opened on his throat, deep and crimson, dark and ominous, from the pieces of blade. With her voice alone, it was sealed and left only a scar in its stead. The warrior commanded for the voice to reveal her figure.
From the water, a woman, a nymph, with skin as clear as the open air and hair more silken than the finest from Thebes. She bore a translucent ambrosial gown of a cyan hue, and it bristled slightly in the wind though all was still around the mountain. She glid towards the warrior and kissed him on the cheek.
“Be calm, for I am Sebasteia, good nymph of this mountain.”
“Your voice is beautiful,” the warrior could not help but say.
Sebasteia giggled. “Yours is rugged and deep; whom do you command?”
“Many men,” he replied sombrely. “They are dead now.”
The nymph’s eyelids flickered, and her eyes lost their glow for a moment. “Focus not on the events below. Let me assist you in your fight.”
The warrior, entranced by naturalistic beauty, followed Sebasteia back to the soft grass and jagged rocks, where the automatons were pacing about heavily. They turned to the nymph, who raised an open hand towards them and closed it slowly, allowing vines to burst forth from the earth and wrap around the bronze’s legs. From the vines grew rocks and dirt, mud and grass, coating the artificial men in a glaze of earth. When flowers bloomed from the dirt, the brutes were defeated.
“Return to your home, Hephaestus!” the warrior called.
The Olympian’s false leg jutted forward, then backwards, and he disappeared into the air back to the peak of Olympus. Sebasteia turned to the warrior and clasped his hand as gently as nuzzling with a plump sheep.
“Speak your name, brave warrior,” she sang.
The warrior proclaimed proudly, “I am Asphalion.”
“Spare a night of deep thought, Asphalion, for I must determine if I am to travel with you to Olympus.”
Without another word, Sebasteia danced to her spring and sat by it as the day faded to half-night, then full, then finally until dawn came and blessed the mountain with its radiant and healing light. She returned to Asphalion and kissed his cheek once again.
“Swear that you will not harm the mountain. Respect the earth and the beings upon it, do not do anything that would bring it strife. Swear it, and I will accompany you.”
“I swear upon the Styx and the skies, on the lives of every mortal, on the life of myself and of my father, my mother, my hunting dogs, my clothes, and my joy. I swear on those; come with me, good Sebasteia.”
