The field erupted into a spray of dirt, wood, and golden blood when Zeus’ chariot was knocked out of the sky. The Lord of Thunder was ejected from the wreckage, rolling a good ten feet away. He shook the daze from himself and stood, preparing for his father to be upon him.

This future king of the gods was a handsome man. His helm had cracked when he took the blow from his father’s scythe, so he’d discarded it. He had a chiseled, clean-shaven face and light blue eyes, with a long shock of white hair. The white and gold he wore in the standard Greek style covered his chest but not his arms, allowing his strength to be seen. He extended his right arm and opened his hand. The sky rumbled. His eyes changed color, flashing bright yellow. His fingers closed into a fist, curling around a bolt of pure, blindingly bright lightning.

Zeus’s chariot was ruined and the Pegasi that pulled it dead, meaning no more flying. He looked into the sky. The storm clouds blocked out the sun, but it was not dark. Three chariots still flew, locked in combat. Every time they exchanged a blow with each other, the world lit up. There was a flash of golden light. Two of the chariots froze in midair, the wings of the Pegasi locked, but not falling. The third chariot descended rapidly toward Zeus.

The chariot that had been racing towards him slowed and changed direction. It landed in the field across from him. A black and gold, ornately decorated thing, pulled by two stallions made of smoke. The man in the chariot was eight feet tall, towering over Zeus. He wore armor of black and gold, matching his chariot. His cape wasn’t just the darkest thing Zeus had ever seen. He still had his Athenian helm on. It covered most of his face, but his eyes shone through the eye slit. They were bright as torches, golden in hue. In his hand he held an enormous scythe, as tall as he was. The blade was obsidian, but stronger than iron. On his other arm he bore a shield, black, with a golden hourglass as its emblem. Chronos, the Titan of Time, stepped out of his chariot.

“You look unwell, my son. Are you sure you wish to continue this fight? You could flee again; it seems to be what you are best at,” Chronos taunted. His voice boomed in his helmet, echoing across the entirety of Greece.

“I was a babe; I could do nothing but run. You started this, Father. I was protecting my siblings,” Zeus retorted. His arm stood ready to hurl his lightning bolt.

“And I was protecting myself. Prophecy is a dangerous thing, little god. Gaia foresaw the death of my father by my hand, and now she foresees my death at yours. No one may presume to tell me my fate. Come, fall to the same blade that cut your grandsire,” he said, slamming the end of his scythe against the ground.

Zeus attacked, hurling lightning at his father as he sprinted forwards, closing the distance. Chronos was ready, taking the bolt against his shield. The explosion rocked the Earth, yet Chronos stood unmoved. He swung his wicked scythe, moving the weapon with only one hand. Zeus formed a new bolt in his left hand, raising it to parry the blow. Their exchange went on. Chronos deflected each blow with ease, while Zeus struggled to defend himself.

Chronos was toying with him. Zeus realized he could not keep up with his father. But the God of Thunder noticed something as he fought longer and longer. Occasionally, as he fought, he’d hurl a lightning bolt that almost hit its mark. Each time it came close, Chronos’ fingers glowed with a faint light, barely perceptible, and the bolt would miss. So, Zeus hatched a plan, a desperate hope. As he spun away from his father’s lazy scythe strike, he goaded him:

“This is hardly a fair fight, father, and you know it. My brothers and I can easily stand up to you. You know full well that three gods outclass a titian. You’re too cowardly to fight us together.”

“You think your siblings are so powerful? Fine, let them join you. It will make little difference.” As he spoke, Chronos raised his scythe and slammed the hilt into the ground. A shockwave cracked the ground he stood on, and the two chariots in the sky unfroze. Both turned and dove straight towards the Earth, landing next to Zeus.

His first brother, Poseidon, King of the Sea, landed on his right. He smelled of the ocean, with long eternally wet black hair that stretched to his mid-back. A cocoon of water clung to his body like armor, all stemming from a shell necklace he wore. He held a trident in his hands, adorned in with emeralds.

His eldest brother, Hades, God of the Dead, stood on his left. Armor nearly as black as Chronos’s but instead of being able to see his eyes through his helm, they were impossibly draped in shadow. No living part was seen through his armor; even his arms were covered. He wore a cloak clasped with bone and held a bident made of obsidian.

As they landed, Zeus whispered his plan to his brothers. He turned to their father.

“Surrender, father. Your reign is at an end.”

“Time doesn’t end.”

The titan moved faster than light. Repelling blows from all three gods simultaneously. Their fighting lasted hours. While the gods tired, the titan never seemed to waver. Poseidon and Zeus tag-teamed, attempting to catch Chronos off guard with the weight of their attacks combined. Hades stalked the shadows, trying to surprise the titan. Each time he failed, he’d slink back into the darkness again. The brothers stalled, defending themselves as best as they could while they searched for their opening. Until finally, they found one.

A bolt of lightning, aimed true, hurled at Chronos’ chest. Hades, the smartest of his siblings, saw his chance. As his father’s hand glowed, he feinted with his bident while pulling his sickle from his waist. An ivory blade that he slashed upwards with, severing the titan’s fingers on his right hand.

Chronos screamed, reeling back. He raised his other hand, and Poseidon swept in, quick as a surging river. He slashed in an arc with his razor-sharp trident, cutting off the fingers on his left hand.

The lord of time stumbled, attempting to use his powers, and finding they would not come to him. Zeus raised his hands and hurled one last bolt of lightning towards his father’s head. The blast shook the universe.

Chronos was right; you cannot end time. The victorious gods carted his remains off to Tartarus, where he would reform, trapped for eternity in the pit. Zeus proclaimed himself king and had his brothers and sisters clean up the rest of the titans. But for his son, Hermes, herald of the gods, he had a special task.

“You will find the fingers of my father, your grandfather, on the field where our battle raged. Gather them and bring them to me, so none may toy with time.”

Hermes was fast, faster than his father or uncles. He sped to the battlefield and searched the fields for a day. But he only found nine of the ten digits. He searched for days but could not find the last digit. Unbeknownst to him, the Titan stepped on the finger as he stumbled backwards and pressed it deep into the Earth.

Hermes did not want to return to his father, a disappointment. He gathered the fingers and cut off one of his own. He placed gloves on his hands and returned to the king, claiming a successful search. Zeus was overjoyed and threw the bag into Tartarus.

For a thousand years, the finger lay pressed into the dirt. Civilizations rose and fell, while it rested in a field, changing over time. The finger furled, curling into a ring. It calcified, drenched in the blood of gods and titans alike. Hard as stone, smooth as glass, and shaped like a Mobius strip, wrapping around itself. It would rest for years still before a stray mortal man tending his fields would discover it. In fact, the farmer would pick up the ring and not know that he held time in his hand.

Editor: Michelle Naragon