Chapter Text
Down in the Elysian Fields, where the heroes, warriors, and virtuous women rest, a small group gathered beneath the soft shade of an asphodel tree.
They were men who had worn armor in life, whose names had once stirred the hearts of cities. Yet now they sat quietly upon the soft fields, their helmets gone and their wounds long forgotten.
At their center stood a young boy.
His eyes, bright and gold as the sun over the sea, looked upon the gathered men, eager. More wandering souls drifted closer, curiosity drawing them near. A new tale was about to begin. In the Elysian Fields, the art of storytelling was a treasure even among the blessed dead.
The boy cleared his throat softly.
Then he lifted his gaze to the distant sky of Hades' meadow, and with a small, hopeful smile, he spoke: "O Muses, daughters of far-seeing Mnemosyne, whose voices guide the songs of mortals and whose breath stirs the lyre, guide me.
You who dwell upon Olympus and know the weaving of the Moirai, who remember the deeds of heroes long after their bones have turned to dust, lend me your voice.
For I am but a boy, and though my heart is full, my tongue is small beside the greatness of the tale I tell.
Sing, then, not of me, but of my brother."
Murmurs rose through the gathered men. Some leaned forward, others nodded in quiet approval. The boy placed a hand over his chest, steadying the swell of pride within his heart.
"Sing, O Muses, of Idia, Prince of Elis, whose hands were skilled though his body was frail, whose mind burned as bright as the forge-fire of Hephaestus.
Tell of the prince whom warriors mocked for his softness, yet whose courage carried him farther than spear or shield could reach.
Tell how he walked the long roads of Hellas beneath the weight of a prophecy that threatened to break both his polis and soul.
Tell how he loved a being others feared to name—a creature said to possess a psyche as hollow as Tartarus.
And tell how, for the sake of those he loved, he dared to descend alive into the darkness beneath the earth, where even the bravest heroes hesitate to follow."
A gentle wind stirred across the Elysian Fields, carrying the faint echo of a lyre's strings.
The boy's golden eyes glimmered.
Some souls exchanged knowing looks. An old warrior chuckled softly, "A good beginning," he murmured.
The storyteller's smile widened.
"So sing through me, O Muses, if it pleases you.
Begin where all such troubles begin—
With a prophecy.
A king.
And a fragile boy who chose, despite fear and fate alike, to follow his heart even into the depths of the Underworld."
The wind fell quiet, the asphodel leaves stilled, and somewhere far above the peaceful meadows of the dead, the daughters of Memory began to sing.
Their song carried across time, returning to the days when fate wove its threads.
Every story begins with the will of the gods, for no mortal life unfolds without the quiet meddling of divine hands.
It was in the city of Elis, where green plains stretched towards the sea and the citizens stirred beneath the watchful eyes of Olympus, that a child was born in the house of the king.
The night was calm, the torches in the palace burned steadily, servants moved swiftly through the chambers, whispering with joy, as the queen had delivered her first son—a healthy boy whose cries rang strong underneath Nyx's sky.
Yet, even though the child breathed and wept, no name was given to him.
The king deemed it right to keep him unnamed until the will of the gods had been sought. He was a paranoid man and a name was no small thing: it shaped the path of lives, no ruler who wished his child to prevail would choose one without counsel from the divine.
Thus, while the queen rested and the child slept, the king prepared to visit the oracle. At dawn he departed from the palace, crossing the dusty roads that led toward the sacred house of Apollo.
The temple rose upon the acropolis, its colorful Ionic columns bright beneath the sun.
Within its walls waited the priestess. She stood before the entrance of the naos, where the god's words were said to fall from Mount Olympus. Smoke curled slowly around her figure, and her eyes, though open, seemed fixed upon something far beyond mortal sight.
The king approached her with careful steps.
He laid gifts before her: gold, oil, honey and a fine cloak dyed in yellow, then bowed his head.
"Loxias Apollo," he said, his voice echoing through the temple, "lord of the lyre and the shining bow, hear my plea: a son has been born to my house. I ask only to know the road that lies before him, that I might guide my kingdom wisely."
For a minute, there was only a suffocating silence.
Then, the priestess drew in a long breath. When she spoke, her voice no longer sounded like that of a single woman, but of multiple people.
"King of Elis," she said, "hear the fate that the Moirai have woven: the life of your firstborn is tied to that of a beast. When the youngest of your house enters the realm of the dead, the monster will close its grasp upon him. Then, the polis of Elis shall fall into turmoil, for men fear what they do not comprehend."
And then the priestess fell silent once more, her gaze still lost as the god's voice withdrew.
The man remained kneeling quietly for a long moment. His heart beat fast in his chest as he turned the prophecy over and over again in his head, seeking the truth through its shadowed meaning.
A beast would kill his firstborn, and the death of the youngest would begin the fall of order within the city. Chaos that would surely follow the beast that would end his son.
He was not a stranger to grim prophecies. The stories told through Hellas were full of them. Yet, a ruler who ignored the warning of a god was a fool— a dead one at that, so the king rose slowly, his face set with quiet resolution.
If the prophecy spoke the truth, then danger would follow the child wherever power gathered.
A prince who stood near the throne drew enemies as flames drew moths: rivals, conspirators, ambitious men of the assembly and the jealousy of some gods that might send monsters upon them.
But a boy removed from politics, a boy who walked outside the struggles of power, might slip unseen past the claws of fate.
And so, the king returned to his house.
The child was brought before him in the quiet chamber where he slept with his wife. The baby stirred in his blankets, his small hands grasping at the air, heliodor eyes wide open.
The man looked down at his son for a long time. "This one," he said at last, "shall not be raised among the disputes of the assembly nor the ambitions of courtiers. He will be kept from the struggles of the polis, far from the games of power that devour men."
The queen listened in silence, though worry flickered across her face. "And what name will you give him?" she asked.
The king's gaze lingered on the child.
He paused.
A single word came to his mind, the one used for the stubborn men who stand apart from the affairs of the city. Idiōtēs.
But he could not name a kid in such a cruel way, so, softened by the affection he felt for his doomed child, the name took another shape.
And so the boy—born beneath the shadows of a dreadful prophecy, set apart from the struggles of kings— finally received a name: Idia.