Gift of the Gods
The Lingering Hills.
CHRYSANDER kneels by the river.
Oh Mount Olympus! Oh gods! Zeus! I am on the eve of my eighteenth birthday. I am on the eve of manhood. It is time for me to grab the reins of responsibility, to wield the sword of glory, it is time for me to carve my name and control my destiny, a destiny to be spoken of in poem and song, to set an example for the ages and—
Dad, can I just cut the crap? I am about to turn eighteen years old, and I don’t know what the shit you want me to do! You fucked my mom because she’s a babe, but you obviously had some reason for me to be me otherwise I’d have turned out a ten headed hydra or something. And I mean, look at these babies. Would you give me arms of such power and greatness if I wasn’t meant to wrestle sea creatures and wandering monsters? Instead, I’m stuck in a shithole of a village, doing nothing more exciting than helping a horse out of the mud. I love the attention: don’t get me wrong, but Dad: I’m meant for something great. I can feel it in my bones. I must be meant for something great. I’m the son of Zeus after all. I am your son! If I’m not bound for greatness, then I’m… I’m…
Oh Father: oh mighty Zeus, king of gods, please, please send me a sign. I want to know that I am more than just an abnormally strong man. Show me I am meant for greatness; show me I am meant for glory; show me that I am truly your son!
CALLISTA, a beautiful maiden, steps from behind a bush.
I like the way you think Dad.
I did not expect to find you here. I was only coming for a walk… and a bath…
A bath you say? But these fair cheeks could not need more cleansing.
Perhaps your eyes deceive you Chrysander. For I assure you I am really quite filthy.