8-Anarchisus

“ ** Anarchisus”  ** ** Upon the mountain of Olympus there was unrest **. Throughout the great hall rang the echoes of screams and shrieks, the clang of bronze on marble tile, the frantic whispers of the hopeful pleading. Pleading to whom? There was no god to save them… Was this freedom? Was this what it felt like to leave the clasp of oppression? Is this what it truly was to conquer the all-mighty? The seed of anarchy sprouted 2 long score ago. An infant was discovered at the foot of Zeus’s palace. He lay in a woven basket, covered only by a sheepskin blanket. Between the folds of the blanket hid a single parchment. It read only “this is he, Anarchisus. He shall serve you to his greatest extent. All of you.” No one can recall who it was who discovered him first. One of the maids surely, for he was first brought to the attention of Zeus when he awoke beside his crib. Zeus examined the baby, and could see he had some mortal in him, but surely some of the opposite. Until he could walk with a straight back, and speak with a deepened tone, Hera raised him as her own. She carried him with her everywhere she walked. Zeus was not seen near her for 10 years. It is not known why, but after first seeing the baby, Zeus never spoke of it again. He would not look at it, never sit in the same hall. This was, until he came of age. At the age of 10, he was put to work in the kitchen. Brought there by Zeus, hand on neck. This was the first memory Anarchisus had of Zeus. As they approached the door, rough callused hand on his neck, Zeus threw him into the kitchen. Anarchisus had no reason to argue, or fight, for he would never speak out against he who he whom was his master. For the next 7 years, at Zeus’s order, he served in Zeus’s kitchen. He swept the crumbs under the cutting board, and wiped the blood off the butcher’s mallet. When there was no more grain, it was he who would gather the sack. When all of the meat had been cured, it was he who slay and ready a new Brahmin. Anarchisus had no space, no personal possessions, and no accomplice. In his corner of the servant’s quarters he would sit, night after night, left to cogitate his hatred. For he had changed, he no longer thought against the speaking out at his ruler. He began to question him, thinking, how could someone so great, so mighty, no even hold the power to conjure up more then a glance in his direction? How could he hold no sense of compassion? On his 18th birthday Anarchisus was moved to the mines. He would wake, ages before Apollo took flight, and walk the 5 miles to the quarry, arriving just before sunrise. He would swing his pick at the limestone, sometimes for hours, until he struck marble. He would then load the cart, and hoist it to the top. It was in these mines that he found his place. Not in his work, but in the workers. He found others who believed the same as he did. Sometimes they would go off, to the far edges of the mine, and speak of what hardships they had come by at the hand of Zeus. Sometimes it was simply a day neglected of food, and water, possibly a broken limb… the death of a family member. After 12 years working in the mine Anarchisus had grown into a man. His friends of the past, whom with he would speak of his hatred, had left years ago, but that was okay, for new people always arrived. Every three to four years the men would leave, yet he was never called elsewhere. And, in every new group of young men, came more who shared his ideals. Now much older then them, he was a leader of sorts. Sometimes the men would not even know of there hatred, but Anarchisus would “discover” it. It was this new group that arrived, on his 30th name day, that changed things. While conversing with the men, one spoke of a town he’d visited in his travels trading for Zeus. In this town, he said, that the governor had, for many years, taxed the farmers heavily, to the point where they had nothing left to feed their loved ones. The farmers accepted this for a decade at least, until the point of breaking fell over them. Banded together, torch and pitch forks, they went to the door of the governor. The torches were thrown, thatched roof set aflame. They padlocked the door, locking the governor inside. In the weeks following, free from the governor, the town prospered. They had more goods to use and trade, and were free to leave at the will of themselves. After hearing this story the group decided that they should do something, mirroring this action. What if, they could “set aflame” to Zeus’s palace? Overthrow their “governor.” Oddly enough, this group didn’t split, instead, after 4 years of conspiring this overthrowing, they were transferred back to the palace grounds, to work the farms just outside. It was as if some god had heard their call. Hera, having noticed the reappearance of Anarchisus, began to grow close to him, meeting in secret at night. At first, Anarchisus was not sure he could trust Hera, never confronting her with his plans or thoughts. This was, until one day she came to him in tears, and would tell him only that Zeus had caused this. He was made furious. He could no longer take the doing of this all-mighty “god.” He told Hera of his plan. She agreed. She would assist them. She decided that she would let them only into the palace, and help no further. Anarchisus confronted the group with this new fortune that had come by them. They decided, that a week from that day, it would happen. Hera would leave the key to their palace at the window of the barn, from there they would gather weapons, and storm Zeus’s chamber, taking him to be locked forever in his own dungeon. When the day came the group was as angered as ever, having just lost one of there partners to Zeus’s doing. They gathered their weapons; scythes, axes, and retrieved the key. They entered the palace just as was planned, but all was not right once inside. The door closed shut behind them where Zeus stood. There was a moment of shared eyeing between the group and god, both sides faces red with fury. No words were exchanged, the massacre simply began. With a swipe of Zeus’s hand half of the group was destroyed, not dead, but laying on the ground, capable less. They tried to attack, but there weapons did nothing. At his flesh there axes split, scythes bent. Eventually Anarchisus was the only of the group left. His friends of a decade, all laid to the ground. Anarchisus prepared for his own demise. Zeus looked at him, face less angry, but more saddened. It seemed as if he glared right into his soul. Anarchisus prepared himself for the inevitable blow. He stole one last glance at his maker. Yet, what he saw was not an oncoming attack, but a god literally kneeling at his feet. Zeus then rose. He walked himself, slowly, not turning back, to his dungeon. Anarchisus could hear the slam of the rusted steel doors, once Zeus descended the stairs and was out of sight. Anarchisus was dumbfounded, he was just moments earlier ready to fall to the ground in agony, just as had each of his friends, when now he still stood there, in victory. But this felt nothing like the triumph over evil. He saw no great light sweep across the palace. Instead, he saw the slow motioning, barely breathing, bodies, of everyone he had known, for that last 10 years of his life. Among them he spied a woman. It was her. How could she be there he thought? She was not fighting. She shouldn’t have even been on the mountain right now. He then saw that all of this destruction, and death, though not by his hand, was his doing. He fell to the ground in agony, just as had each oh his friends, imagining the blow he felt, stronger by ten-fold. He wished only to switch places with each of them, to no longer have to be aware; No longer wonder how such a disgusting thing could of taken place. No longer know that it was the fault of himself.