Er hat die Augen zugemacht, in seinem Blut tobt eine Schlacht. Who: Poseidon (wheresmytrident) and Zeus (rules_them_all); OPEN to Highways (the_long_road) What: Mission Impossible cum Road trip of sorts. Where: LA. When: Wednesday evening. Warnings: Two Greeks in a car. The same car.
"I need you to come and pick me up." "What?" "I'm in Santa Barbara." "...what?" "I'll be waiting."
Zeus was surprisingly very fast in finding Poseidon on the mainland. He thought he would have to check into a motel for a week and reluctantly had to let the trail go cold, but he'd later learn that Zeus was in Los Angeles, which was exactly where he needed to go.
The shiny, expensive car looked out of the place, stopping along the dusty road in the middle of nowhere, picking up the old man sitting on the side of the road, sitting on a duffel bag. They didn't have much of a conversation in the beginning - 'Get in. ... ... Where to?' Zeus asked. Poseidon told him to just drive. The rest of it was silence.
He had a photo of a young man in his hand, and he was flipping it around between his fingers over and over again. Zeus threw the occasional glance over at him, but Poseidon ignored every single funny look and let his gaze glaze over as he watched the scenery pass by from the window.
Somewhere along the highway, he must have dozed off. He should have been looking out for the man in the photo, should have been vigilant, should have been responsible, should have been a good father. Should have been, could have been, would have been. If... then...
Then... ...
When Poseidon was younger, everything had seemed much smaller. Just as Zeus had life dancing on the tips of his fingers, and Hades had the dead under his thumb, Poseidon had their world in the palm of his hand. Every breath he took was a sea breeze spurring war sails of bloodstained triremes on, every footstep created waves and whirlpools. The world was a snowglobe in his hands, and all he had to do was shake it. Cities crumbled before his eyes, and the gods' laughter were drowned out by screams in the chaos. Screech in birth, scream in procreation, silence in death. Ungrateful, worthless, pitiful - there was nothing more to man.
He'd been sleeping for over an hour as the car whirred quietly over the cracks on the road, heavy head resting against the car window. The skies were starting to get dark, would go through shades of white-hot burns and old purple bruises, could get as dark as the blackness behind closed eyes.