Chapter Text
Time’s Rebirth begins with a chime;
Two years and two nights,
A choice arises.
Divinity or ashes
Humility or pride;
Within two years and two nights,
A choice arises.
- The first sonata of the final prophecy
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He felt like a faded shadow, and unfortunately the feeling was very normal. After all, he had lived this exact existence for several millennias with brief fits of consciousness. Waking up after three centuries and finding out Europe was important again was a shock, finding out two art movements had gone by was terrible, and finding out Qing China and the Ottoman Empire were falling to pitiful pieces was not fun. Everything happened while he wasn’t looking. Everything happened while he slept for what felt like eternity.
The world would change again, and again, and again, and Kronos would only have a few years to pick up the pieces before his perception of the world shattered again. It was… tiring. Things he thought he knew - people he thought could at least drag his consciousness awake for another decade - would all turn to ashes within a blink of the eye and the turn of the century. There was nothing worse than being asleep, and it felt like he always slept, so he began grasping at straws.
It was true he held contempt for his children after they overthrew him, but in all his heart he tried his very best not to hate them. After all, he knew his own father, Ouranos, hated him with a burning passion, and he always tried not to emulate the man. But centuries wore on him, and he started to feel the anger and the betrayal bubble up in him like a crude sickness.
He has genuine thoughts of pride for his daughter’s bringing of the seasons and hand in the world’s flourishing agriculture were crushed under the weight of time. Interest in his son’s management of the crowded underworld burned away, and love for Hestia - the child he spent the most time with before the incident - was all but forgotten. Pride in Zeus’ cleverness (oh so similar to Rhea), interest in Hera’s work and life (She was trying her best and it felt like no one saw), and love in Poseidon, who was oh so similar to him and yet made it work. It was almost sad how Kronos became like his father.
But it hadn’t mattered to him then as he worked towards vengeance. He twisted mortal men’s dreams to no avail, so he turned towards demi-gods. Towards Luke. It took time, as they all did, but eventually Luke saw the promises he gave as truth. Kronos knew those promises could never really be the truth; not after what they did. He needed more time. It was a rather stupid thing: Time needed more time. But he never had enough.
Years later when he fought against his kids in the Battle of Manhattan, some reasonable part of him fought for control. It wasn’t some climatic, soul splitting act like in the Second Giant War. No, It was more of a feeling of dread, or a feeling of wrongness that told him to stop and turn around. That told him to just hide on a farm peacefully for the rest of his days. To not become like his father even more than he already was. As Perseus Jackson stabbed his weak point, both Luke and Kronos carried some clarity, and so even a small part of him was happy that he failed. Some feeling in him rejoiced as he returned to the cold embrace of sleep. You cannot become more like someone else when you are asleep.
Kronos remained asleep for much of the Second Giant War. Occasionally he would catch glimpses of the gods' struggles with their Roman counterparts, or he'd be lucid enough to stop a monster from leaving Tartarus, or to send it on it’s way with haste and a blessing. Everything he saw and felt was fuzzy. Sometimes when he was awake he felt like he wasn’t at all. Like his mind would empty and everything would pass by and around him, and nothing could bring him back. It scared him. It reassured him. This isn’t your battle. You don’t have to be aware anymore. You don’t have to hurt anyone anymore. You don’t have to be hurt anymore.
His soul was even more splintered and lost than it ever was before, but whatever panic that should have risen never did, and so he let things pass him by. At some point he could not tell the difference between the waking world and dreaming. After all, he was barely lucid in either one.
When he was some semblance of awake - he notably couldn’t stay still. His awareness would switch between the grains of sand (his soul) that laid all around after his “death”. Sometimes he was the ember in a hearth, or a grain in tilled soil. A golden glitter on a happy girlfriend’s new engagement ring. A part of the blood in some mortal’s heart before it beat one last time. A fleck of something within the raging tide of the ocean, or a crackle of energy after a lightning strike. He was everywhere and nowhere. He saw everything, and could do nothing. The anger at anything and anyone was brief, before the numbness set in again. Before he lost all semblance of reality again.
This cycle went on and on for who knows how long. Days or centuries. Hours or millenia. Time had lost all concept of Time, and the irony would have hit him if he could focus on one thing for longer than two minutes. Nevertheless, he would only finally get a reprieve much later.
It had been one of his “lucid” days when he was called upon. As far as he could remember: the sand at a random beach in Puerto Rico had been strangely dry that day, and the speck of his soul in the Gävle Goat had been cheering the arsonists on. This was all he had really thought of the day, and so the visit to the weavers of fate was a scary and nice change of pace.
It had opened pleasantly - “I see you’re awake, Lord of Time. You should know you will lose all consciousness soon,” - or as pleasantly as it could get with the fates.
“Your presence has been scattered too far, and as such, your metaphoric breath will stop soon if left without intervention,” another one of them spoke, though he could not decipher which. They were being much more blunt than usual - perhaps they were being kind considering his current state? Vagueness wouldn’t help him now.
“The war with Gaia is now on an almost certain track to be lost. There is a way to unweave this future however.” Another spoke. The first, the second, or the third he did not know. With a cold certainty, he realized he was really losing it. The Fates were right.
“The cruelties of whatever reign Gaia wants to bring will reach even us. None of us will be safe, and a better fate has long passed us by. We must take extreme measures.”
“Everyone will be given another chance - including you.”
“You must make the right choices -”
“As will everyone else -”
“Or all will be for naught.”
“We will, with your aid, turn back the wheel of time. But remember: you must make different choices.” He didn’t exactly know how the Fates could tell, but whatever deal that could be made with his meager presence was made. They seemed to understand his willingness to escape his present situation (and his desire to cut his children into pieces like they had done to him) and therefore could see his given consent. It was difficult to pull upon his power of time now. He hadn’t realized just how weak he had become, but he managed just enough. Thankfully the Fates were able to pick up the slack. With the combined efforts of the three Fates and himself, they turned back time.
—------- —------- —-------
He barely felt the rewinding. All he really felt was falling. That, and a strange churning somewhere, that he felt was weirdly familiar but he couldn’t quite place. ‘I’m in Tartarus again. I’ve fallen asleep and I’ll wake up soon. Yes.’
He was slightly uncomfortable, in a way he knew he hadn't quite felt in a while, but he blamed it on probably having been awhile since his soul was this “together”. With this certainty, he settled for what he realised was ten minutes when he felt a light kick to the side. It didn’t hurt, but he felt so much pure shock that after the contact was made he flailed in a way that looked like he had been kicked a lot harder. His eyes flew open - which was when he realized he had eyes - and his hands - he had hands! - grasped for some weapon. He quickly realized that no scythes given by Gaia to overthrow the embodiment of the Sky were going to materialize from within what looked like a homeless person’s well used leather jacket and belt.
Standing in front of him was what looked like a… mortal police officer.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There’s a homeless shelter a couple blocks down to the right if you need a place to stay, but you can’t sleep on one of these park benches.”
“What…” Kronos didn’t quite hear what the police officer said after that, as he felt a shiver rake through this - his - body. The realization that it hadn't all been a dream, that he wasn't in Tartarus, and was instead in the body of what was probably a soon to be dead mortal homeless man shook him in ways he wasn't prepared for at - 5:36 am - the crack of dawn. In the future, no one would need to know about the ringing in his ears, his quickened breathing and heart rate, nor the sudden shaking in his limbs. Yes, I'll skip this part - and he blatantly ignored that this implied he'd be around to tell anyone who knew him - I'll even skip the part about being kicked by a mortal police officer too.
The rest of the night was a blur that he'd rather forget.