The world is not young when the Titans fall. Neither are the gods, not really, but when millenia blur together there is little to say about the years that pass, until the skies open up and the gates of Mount Olympus part and the six children of Kronos mark the beginning of their reign on the palace stone for all to see.

"What are we going to do now?" Hestia asks. She is the eldest daughter - sister, they must remind themselves, because those who have come before hold no more sway - and ever the voice of reason. Her fingers trace the stone carvings, her gaze curious as she turns to face Hera. The others have already passed through the gates to see the city beyond. "We cannot leave things as they are now."

Hera smiles, all sharp edges and easy grace. Her teeth flash in the light of the torches that rest above their heads, and her eyes with excitement at all the possibilities that they have, at all the things they had never thought they could become. "We divide up the spoils of war and rule what we have won."

She says it like it is obvious.

Like Hestia should have known.

"Of course," Hestia says. "I shouldn't have asked. Let's find the others."

Her sister tilts her head, curls falling free from behind her ear and stare searching, looking for something that Hestia does not quite understand. She has her mother's nose, Hestia notes, but she says nothing of it. There are many things about Hera that she cannot simply grasp. For a moment, she wonders if it is because she's not willing to, not just yet.

But then -

"Let's," agrees Hera after a brief pause, and holds her her hand. Hestia's worries wash away at the offering. She moves to accept it, and the smile on Hera's face is kinder.

Fingers intertwined, the two of them begin their journey on Mount Olympus as sisters who, for a moment, understand. When they had been born, the world had not wanted them. Now, they will lay claim the earth, the sky, the stars, and everything in between.

The world hasn't seen anything yet.

In the end, the six of them split the world beneath them into three.

Zeus takes the heavens.

He pushes open the palace doors and feels the icy air brush against his skin and shivers. There is no flame in the hearth, no voices to warm the halls and no one to keep the six thrones company. The prophecy must have held some meaning, for all of this had not been there before. It rose from the ground the moment the Titans fell,

His steps are measured, echoing off the marble columns and throughout the rooms as if the world is holding its breath. A part of him wants to relish this moment, rejoice in their victory, but another part pauses. It's the part of him that makes his feet still against the stone floor, turn his eyes to the storm clouds outside, and wonder if this is an omen.

This is what he had wanted, he tells himself. To rule the sky, to be free from the Titans and their presence he had felt even on that island far away as a boy. This is what he had wanted, he insists, even as he sees the shock on his father's face when he had struck the final blow.

Second-guessing yourself? the wind whispers, a vicious taunt in his ears. Showing weakness already, godling?

He stiffens, hot rage coiling in his stomach.

"No," he says. His voice bounces off the cold walls. No, no, no -

There's a sound that is nearly like laughter as the wind wraps around him, closer and closer still until he cannot tell if it is trying to strangle him or warn him.

"No," he repeats, louder, and when he takes the next step the wind falls away like ash and dust, and he is no longer just Zeus; he is god of the sky, king of the Olympians - Zeus, the single syllable name Zeus suddenly carries weight and he likes the way it rolls off of his tongue again - and none shall defy him.

Poseidon takes the seas.

But when he arrives, he is not alone. A nereid awaits him, one foot in the water and the other on land, her face set in almost impossibly unreadable emotion. Her hair is long, drying in the steady sun, and he realizes that whoever she is, he cannot fight.

There is an ancient power in her, radiating from her straight back and perfect posture, from the impassiveness in her eyes - it is the same look that Oceanus had, but he remembers how the Titan's expression had softened when he had agreed to neutrality.

Wars are not won simply by slaughtering your enemies.

He wonders, offhandedly, if this nereid knows that.

"Who are you?" he asks, feeling the sand under his feet shift as she moves. The corners of her lips tug downwards the slightest in a frown. Her stormy eyes search him as if she can see the soul beneath his skin, fluttering against his ribcages.

"Amphitrite," she says. Her voice is slow, melodious, even. It reminds him of the way that the morning waves lap against the shore, washing over the beach and pulling away and circling his ankles as it does now. He had not seen the sea before, not like this. The touch of the water against his skin is new and startling and Amphitrite seems to be unable to help the small smile that flits across her features. "You have come to rule the seas, yet you have not seen them before?"

"I have eternity to see them," he answers. "I may as well begin now."

One eyebrow rises, amusement apparent. "Such arrogance. But I suppose every ruler needs some. You may make a good one yet."

Poseidon nods and lifts his chin, trying on the title and marvelling in the power it holds. "And where do you stand, Amphitrite?"

She inclines her head, stepping to the side and ankle-deep in the ocean, and raises her hand as if to allow him to pass. "We will have to see."

Hades takes the Underworld.

It's already been overrun by the dead, who mill about across the dull landscape. The color palette, Hera would say, is so uninteresting and boring, but he likes it. There is something about the way that the asphodel in Elysium glows softly in the dimness of the world, the way that the rivers weave in and out of crooked forests and underneath broken bridges and the way that moss crawls over rocks and illuminates the land.

He wrinkles his nose. The bridges will probably need fixing.

The ferryman - Charon, he reminds himself, a cranky old spirit - coughs to catch his attention. "It has been some time since someone has come."

"I can tell," Hades says. The boat is small, parts of the wood chipped away and its design so worn that he cannot tell what it depicted before. It's interesting, the irregularities and flaws. Maybe the carving beneath his hand is supposed to be a bird, or maybe it is a misshapen turtle. There is no way to tell, and somehow he doesn't think that asking is an option. "A great deal of work must be done here."

"Many people do not think very highly of this place," Charon muses. "But I believe that it takes the right one to set things straight."

"Perhaps," the god answers. He's leaning forward, almost unconsciously, to examine the river beneath him. The currents are translucent, practically, but reflect nothing and reveal little about the riverbed below.

The rod Charon is using to move the boat blocks him from falling in.

"Careful. You may be immortal, but the Styx is deadly. It will tear you apart and leave nothing behind." he warns. Hades moves back so quickly that Charon lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "It won't bite you. Might not. I can't speak for the one who controls it, though."

Hades takes the Underworld, and he decides that he likes it here.

The sisters take a bit longer - they deliberate, they consult, and they choose.

On the fifth day, Demeter becomes the goddess of agriculture and fertility. She disappears from Mount Olympus before Helios pulls his chariot over the tops of the mountains and sunlight creeps across the land, travelling to the place where the earth cracks open and Gaia slumbers. It's a pointless visit, and she knows it, but she cannot help but be curious.

Only once had she ever felt the presence of Gaia, an ancient and primordial power from eras before Demeter had come into this world, and only once had she seen the Earth Mother. A mere glimpse, that is all it had been.

Demeter is curious. She's curious, and a voice in the back of her mind tells her that she should see what remains here, at least once in the reign of the Olympian gods, and she heeds its suggestion because now she can. Her fingers brush away the dirt covering the large stone in the center of the clearing - if that is what this place can be called. It is an indentation on the surface of the earth, synonymous with a pit but not quite, because the walls are covered in draping ivy and trees grow tall and arch above the stones on the ground, above the scattered statues that are too ruined for Demeter to make out exactly what they are.

It could be a forest like every other one out there, if not for the power that thrums beneath Demeter's palm.

Her lips press together at the sensation. She finds the fact strange, to be able to feel it with a single touch, and pulls away her hand. Raising her eyes to examine her surroundings once more, dread pools into the bottom of her stomach and makes her draw in a shuddering breath.

Whoever rests here, be it for another millennium or perhaps two, is dangerous.

On the seventh day, Hestia sits down by the hearth and lights it with flame. She is the eldest sister and she takes it upon herself to take care of the others where they do not. But something is changing, like an incorrect beat in a indistinguishable song, like a crescendo is happening too early and an accidental placed where it should not be.

Something is changing.

In no way is it wrong, but she begins to understand why so many fear change - the difference it makes in everything that had already been known and the discomforting risk of being thrust into strange circumstances is enough to unnerve anyone.

Hestia is about to move her hand away from the flames when the door slams open and Hera strides in. The other goddess comes to a stop, turns her head gracefully, and scans the throne room as if she is searching.

An unreadable emotion flickers across her gaze when she sees Hestia.

"What are you doing here, sister?" she asks, not relaxing her posture. If anything, she tenses up at the sight of Hestia by the hearth. "Have you seen Zeus?"

"Those are two very separate questions," Hestia says, eyes narrowing the slightest. Something is changing, she remembers, and wonders if Hera is in the middle of it all. "Zeus is outside."

Hera's lips press together, white bleeding onto them partway before she lets out a sigh. "I'll take your word."

She turns on her foot to leave. Hestia does not stop her, watching as her immaculate robes sway with her movement. Eyebrows pulling together in a disturbed frown, she returns her attention to the flame and her unburnt hand.

Funny, how Hera said nothing about it. She would have, Hestia knows, days before. There is a coldness in her sister that she had not seen before - perhaps it is their destiny, but that does not mean she likes it. Family is a complicated affair.

She watches as it sparks and grows, marvels in the warmth it brings, and that is where she stays.

Hera has always known what she wanted. She pursues power, not in the way of sheer destruction - though it appears that the six of them have a penchant for it - but in a way that her name will mean something the same way that her brothers' will. Being simply a goddess does not have, not quite, the ring that she likes.

Her steps are unhurried as she walks, but she has a purpose and she does not disguise it. There is no one who can stop her, no one who will, because it is only the eighth day and she intends - no, she has - to use her time wisely. It had been almost laughable, how easily she had been able to achieve it.

But she is not surprised.

She has always known, with absolute certainty, where she would end up. If she could not rule the heavens, if she could not rule the gods alone, she would find another way.

Lips curling up into a smile, she enters the throne room. The doors part for her as if by their own will, revealing the majesty of the palace that even she had not fully comprehended. The six of them had never truly believed that they could reach glory until it happened.

Hestia is at the hearth, for she has chosen her dominion with the same single-mindedness that Demeter had when she left Olympus for the earth, and she looks up as Hera advances towards the first throne on the left.

"That is not yours," her sister says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement. Her eyes track Hera's movement closely, with strange attentiveness.

"It is now," Hera corrects, fingers tracing over the back of the seat with a sense of satisfaction. "Now and forever."

Hestia clicks her tongue, saying nothing else.

Hestia and Hera do not speak again.

Well, not really. It's like that one couple at school who always breaks up - they're not talking, not strictly, at least, but you can swear you see them looking at each other when the other is turned the other direction, you can swear that they know, you can swear that they've spent one too many nights sneaking around to fall under the category of "not talking."

We're not talking, they say.

But they will also tell you that the world is young.

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