Athens was experiencing an unprecedented hot summer this year, preceded by a horrific drought in the previous year. The people blamed the destruction of the olive orchard a few months back as the reason for the gods’ wrath upon their subjects. It was unknown who committed the atrocity and investigation turned up nothing, so ultimately the Archons had to take recourse and try to bribe Athena with offerings. There had been a festival in the name of the patron goddess of the city for two entire weeks, which did not help the dwindling resources that should have been kept for the coming winter.

Humans were afraid and reverent of the gods. At the same time however they blamed all their misery on the same gods as well. They did not know that Athena’s thirst for revenge had been quenched by the deeds of a young scholar months ago. They were spending and prostrating for naught. Droughts happened with or without the gods involved, every farmer knew this. Instead of trying to appease the goddess of wisdom and war, they would have done better at begging Artemis and Dionysus for support.

Typhos knew all of this. He wandered the busy streets of Athens with a neutral smile. All around him the townsfolk were occupied with clean-up after the festivities. Spirits were high, as the common man was short-sighted and reveled in ephemeral pleasures. They were the ones who would suffer the most come the harvest, while the aristocrats would enjoy their plentiful stored goods at the top of the city.

He could hardly complain though, his business was blooming beautifully in such times. That is, the business of lending people in need his support, with interest on return of course.

“How sweet.” He hummed as he picked up the scent of freshly baked bread from the street ahead. Despite his gaudy ring-covered hands and golden necklace, he did not usually indulge in pleasure. He had not tasted sweetened bread since childhood and would keep it that way. A wonderful memory like that could be tainted by disappointment. In the scholar’s eyes the risk of ruining the memory of the bread by eating something inferior now was unacceptable. He had to preserve it - no, not just that - everything at its best.

As he crossed an intersection he grabbed the peasants' attention as naturally as he was breathing, so they were making way for him wherever he went. All he did in return was smile and wave occasionally. Naturally a man of his caliber was not wandering the streets aimlessly to enjoy the morning sun on his pale and youthful skin.

This was the commoners’ district, more specifically the domain of the poor and forgotten. To venture here meant to abandon hope. When they saw a man of wealth walk here as if he owned the street, all those poor folk could think of was this: A tax collector.

Was there any profession more reviled? He chuckled in face of such a misunderstanding. But as anything, this image too could be wielded like a weapon.

“Miss, may I ask you a question?” He approached an overly skinny older woman whose eyes lit up in fear the moment she realized that he had addressed her. Her fallen in cheeks were twitching as she was no doubt biting them.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“My name is Typhos. I have come to this place with great purpose, but I must admit I feel somewhat lost. The locals seem to avoid me a great deal, which makes my job that much more taxing. Would you kindly assist me?” His words were carefully picked. He sounded friendly and polite, but there was something sinister in the subtext.

“I… But sir… We paid on time…” She was uneasily twisting a dirty rag in her hands. She had been cleaning it in the water bucket next to her humble abode until now. With one glance Typhos could tell that she was a washer’s wife.

“Pardon? I just need directions.” He said with feigned surprise.

“Oh… I’ll help as well as I can sir.” She was sweating below her stringy grey hair.

“I am truly grateful. To explain my circumstances, I am searching for a well-known scholar friend of mine. He has relocated many a time, but my sources tell me he has settled down in this area last month.”

“Scholar, sir? ‘Tis no place for th’ kind.” She seemed confounded by all this.

“Is there such a thing? Scholars are subject to none but their own curiosity.” He said with an amicable smile. “Time and place are meaningless for their kind.”

“’course, sir! You’re right.” She immediately backed down with a nervous smile.

“Perhaps he is not known well in these parts yet, but there should be signs. Is there a building that puffs smoke no matter the time of day? Do you wake from strange noises at night? Rumors of such sort would be more than enough.” He put his fingers through his short and well-kempt hair as he elaborated.

“’Tis true, there’s rumors aplenty.” She nodded. “Ol’ Kamos’ wife told me she’s been havin’ a hard time breathin’ around the bleachers as o’ late.”

“Hm, the bleachers you say?” Hardly an unusual place for respiratory problems. “Was there anything else bothering the people there?”

“All them linen’s covered in soot and white blots, sir, yes ‘tis so! Curses be afoot.” She insisted strongly.

“My, how terrifying.” He said slick as an eel. “Did they also hear the sound of thunder on a day clear as this?”

“Yessir! Loud as a bull kickin’ down the door they say!” She twisted the rag in her hands excitedly.

“Hahaha, that sounds like him.” Typhos laughed. “I thank you for sharing your knowledge with me. Now if you could just guide me to where the bleachers do business.”

“Ah. There he is.” Typhos glanced at the crooked house near the bleachers with a sardonic grin. There had been no need to question the locals, for anybody with eyes and a sense of smell would have been able to locate this place.

Smoke was emanating from an opening in the badly covered roof, the façade was covered in odd colors that made one’s stomach revolt and of course he would be amiss not to note the abundance of gears across the windows. It was like looking at a land bound shipyard with nary a rhyme or reason to its design.

“We didn’t dare approach no further, sir.” The rough skinned woman pointed her crooked finger ahead and then took a step back when a loud bang shook the foundation of the building. “Titans take ‘em!” She cowered.

“You should wash your clothes extra carefully from now on. Do not drink any water that flows through the river close by either.” He said with a serious voice, handed the woman a sparkly coin and then proceeded to enter the surreal house. She clutched it tightly in her dirty palms and gazed after him gratefully.

The door was expectedly unlocked (unhinged would be more fitting) and the interior looked like it was trampled by a thousand inquisitive tax collectors. Parchment and odd constructs were spread everywhere, carelessly thrown about. Typhos had to be careful not to step on anything. His concern was not for the objects, but rather his own health. There was no telling what these things would do on contact.

Judging by the loud metallic noises from deeper inside, the owner was at home. Most would have guessed so by the smoke coming from the roof, but Typhos knew that this madman would leave his homestead with a raging fire inside any time of the day or night. That was just the kind of man he was.

“Epiphanes!” Typhos shouted across the twisted hallways. He could not tell which direction the noises came from, thanks to the strange echo inside this building. Opening doors carelessly could lead to unfortunate consequences as well, so he was careful. “I have come to talk!”

BOOM.

The floor shook again with the thunder of Zeus' wrath. Typhos held onto a candelabra to his right, something he would certainly regret. His hands gripped the cold metal frantically and got stuck to the odd skin of oil on it. He tried to pull it away with force, but it only hurt his hand.

“Gods be damned.” He stared at his newly acquired accessory and decided to press onward nonetheless. The loud rumbling had come from the center of the building, so he could make an educated guess whence the madman was assaulting the townsfolk’s ears. He increased his steps and eventually pushed open a door with all his might. It hit the wall next to it with enough force to make it crack. Brittle construction even for this district.

He had finally reached the sanctum of human madness. Or as Epiphanes would have called it: his ‘workshop’. Dozens of contraptions were spread everywhere, making odd noises or excreting horrible substances. Bottles and cylinders made of glass and stone were spread everywhere and spilled their contents on the tables and even the floor. Smoke escaped the very active furnace in the back.

Some may describe Tartarus as something similar to this sight.

In its midst stood one man, covered in layers of protective clothes and covering his eyes with a see-through protective gear. His head was bald, though not from age, but rather from being burned one too many times. There were clearly scars to see over the few parts of exposed skin he dared to show. Right now he was slowly inserting something into the furnace, using wooden pliers.

Typhos coughed from the intense smell inside the workshop. The smoke made his eyes tear up immensely. Without even trying to garner the man’s attention he smashed open the window with the candelabra that was still stuck to his palm and let the fumes escape outside. The smoke loosened the accessory and let it fall down to the street.

“Hurrg! Air– cough – grant me air!” The young scholar desperately gasped for fresh air and waited until his cough fits ended.

“Hrrrm? Is someone there?” The old man finally seemed to realize something was off when the smoke cleared up around him.

“You mad old dog. How have you not suffocated yet?” Typhos covered his mouth with a white rag from his pocket. He had expected something to this affect.

“Kh? Is that you Typhos, my boy?!” He dropped whatever he was holding so carefully before, which made it plunge straight into the fire… and explode. The floor shook briefly and then the old man coughed up black saliva. “Hah, too much burst powder.” He pulled off his eye protection and wiped his dirty face with an equally dirty rag, basically just spreading the blackness evenly.

“Do you have no love for your own life?” Typhos felt he could finally breathe in the surrounding air again and lowered his rag. He walked into the center of the workshop and squinted his eyes. “You are bothering your neighbors.”

“That so? I never intended to step on anybody’s feet.” He drained an entire water jar in seconds and wiped his mouth before extending his arms to the side. “No matter, we have not seen each other in so long, my boy!” He went in for the hug, but Typhos side-stepped him gracefully. The old man instead got to hug a dingy shelf.

“You were thrown out of so many places for polluting the air and water supply before. Do you never learn?” He glared the scholar down and put a hand to his waist.

“Some smoke won’t hurt a soul!” He replied with a disappointed expression. The shelf was a poor replacement for Typhos it seemed.

“You are just an abnormality. The average human would already have perished from all that soot in your lungs.”

“Hurhurhur!” His laugh was raspy and deep, but his facial features were relatively noble under all the dirt. Cleaned and dressed up he would certainly have been able to pose as an aristocrat, even with all the scars. Yes, once he was known as someone that even the Archons would respect.

“I can sparsely believe you found someone desperate enough to take your money to rent this place.” He tapped his finger against his belt and looked around. “How did you get your hands on all this material?”

“Is that a serious question?” Epiphanes stroked his black (originally brown) beard thoughtfully. “I paid good coin for it of course!”

Typhos mouth twitched and he balled his fists.

“Whose money do you think you are spending here?” He asked in a cold voice.

“I don’t follow?” He truly seemed clueless.

“This is the money I lent to you. For the sake of repaying your debts and getting a new start.” His anger was rising. “For the third time.”

“And thankful I am, my boy!” He smiled his toothy smile. Of course he was missing a few teeth from previous failures that blew up in his face. Sometimes literally.

“You could show it by learning from your mistakes.” Typhos rubbed his temple exasperatedly.

“I always do. Failure is the crux of all invention and scholastic form.” He clapped his hands together (which sent a layer of dust into the air). “For you see, I have made great advances over the past year. I have to show you my third generation water purifier! Do you remember the extendable sword? Ohhh and and and also I had great breakthrough on the self-riding carriages-!”

“Epiphanes.” Typhos’ voice cut him off swiftly. “Is there anything not in the testing stage? Do your fantastical inventions get any results?”

“That depends on what you categorize as ‘results’. Certainly nothing I could sell to my backers yet.” The old man had no inhibitions at all and openly spoke of his failures and mistakes, like nobody Typhos had ever known.

“I thought as much…” The young scholar sighed.

“You are still obsessed with money I see.” He said with an empathetic smile and picked up a device that was making ticking noises.

Typhos didn’t like the old man’s pitying tone at all.

“That money is the only reason you are still able to freely spend your time on toys.” He pointed out.

“I taught you that the ends justify the means, but I never said the means are the ends.” The old scholar reminisced of the days that they had been teacher and student.

“I am grateful for the many wisdoms you taught me. And I have never forgotten that lesson either.” Typhos rubbed one of his rings and nodded. “I have a goal that justifies any means.”

“Hah. You always were the ambitious type.” He was screwing something into the device with a nostalgic smile.

Had it been anyone else, Typhos might have been unable to forgive all these affronts. Anyone who owed him money would pay it back or serve him in other ways. As a moneylender he knew no scruple. Someone who took him lightly or just treated him like a clueless boy would soon find themselves in the gutter without means.

Not so Epiphanes. The old scholar and inventor was Typhos’ first and only true mentor. He was the man that taught him everything he needed to become a ‘scholar’. Back when Typhos had nothing, this madman had taken him in and shown him the intricacy of the world and nature. Something he could learn in no temple and not in the dark corners of the world he usually dealt in either.

This honest desire for knowledge was something he had always admired in the old man. It brought him no shortage of grief, but ultimately he would always support this aimless madness. Or was it aimless? It rather seemed to be aimed everywhere at once.

“I am glad you visit me again.”

“You make it hard to sniff you out.” Despite the horrid sulfuric smells coming from the house.

“I had to relocate without much preparation time. The landlord of the last place was up and ready to send his dogs after me.” He retold it as if it was a funny anecdote. The device in his hands clicked and he called out in triumph.

“What is it now?”

“My invention that can tell time has finally been finished!” He held the round object up excitedly.

“Tell time?” He pulled up the metallic accessory on his wrist which had a needle in its center. This was something he had been gifted by the mad inventor before. A sundial that could be worn and used anywhere. “You were still hung up on that?”

“This one’s different! Doesn’t rely on the sun at all! If Helios is too far away, how could you tell time, hm? Well here is how. A dial that is entirely mechanical. It will turn through the gears inside and move the arrow across the times of day.” He pushed the thing into his former disciples’ hands.

It was round and the size of his hand. The arrow was moving across a circular path that had words carved into it. ‘Early morning’, ‘Midday’, ‘Noon’ and so on.

“It works on its own?” He raised a brow.

“Just got to wind the screw every two hours and it will run all on its own.” He affirmed.

“Then it doesn’t work autonomously at all.” Typhos let his head sink. “Such tedium is not worth anything. What is wrong with a sundial?”

“We’re relying on Helios too much.” The old man said with a serious look.

“Here we go again.” The young scholar pushed the time-teller back into Epiphanes’ hands and moved through the workshop. There were many odd devices spread everywhere, unfinished and half-finished contraptions as well as many materials he had never seen. “You still wish to master the abilities of the gods.”

“It is not possible to match the gods, never said that boy. But we can imitate them. Find our own use for their gifts and the world they created. We can’t rely on them forever.” He lectured him once again and put the time-teller on a pile of other inventions.

“I am not surprised that you were kicked out of the emporium for blasphemy.” The young man looked into a strange glass tank with two metallic rods. He tapped the glass and suddenly a small spark went between the tips. He flinched for a moment.

“Those old-timers don’t appreciate change, boy.” He shrugged. “I see you’ve taken an interest in my little lightning conjurer!”

“Do you dub yourself Hephaestus now? Trying to create lightning bolts?”

“They are not bolts. A person could not wield them like a blade as Zeus does. But these miniscule currents of lightning are very fascinating. So much concentrated force at our fingertips!” He got excited again.

“Unless we can shoot them at our foes they are meaningless.” Typhos tore his gaze off the tank and moved on. “Imitating the gods only makes us more aware of how inferior we are.”

Typhos had a different philosophy from his master. While the old man wished to gain independence from the gods by imitation, Typhos knew that such a thing could never work. The gods controlled the world; they were its foundation and its end. In front of their might, anyone was powerless. Humans begged for their support, tried to distance themselves from them as Epiphanes did or lived their lives in constant fear.

He would not be like them.

“The gods are essential, but they are not infallible.” He continued as he picked up some odd silver rock. Then he realized that it was far too soft to truly be a mineral. “In that case we should not beg for their aid or revolt against them. We should use them, just as we would humans.”

“And I am the blasphemer?” Epiphanes chortled deeply.

“I give plenty of donations to the temples, I assure you.” He smirked.

“You should be careful with that ore boy. It is prone to exploding.”

“Huh?” Typhos was kneading the soft rock in his hands and froze up.

“When it makes contact with water it suddenly lights up. Very curious - very fascinating!”

Typhos face was rigid as stone as he slowly put the rock down, not daring to let out a single sweat drop. When he set it down on the linen, he swiftly wiped his hands as well.

“Where did you find such an abnormal ore?” He inquired.

“An old miner friend of mine discovered it north of Thebes. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen, so he sold it to me.” He reminisced. “Cost him an arm and a leg to get it here.”

"Transport was that expensive?”

“No no, he truly lost them. Because it blew up on him of course.” The scholar laughed.

“Ore that catches fire in water…” Typhos cupped his chin and mustered the small pile in front of him.

“I named it Kalio, after my friend who unearthed it. I thought his wife would have liked that.”

Typhos blended everything around him out before coming to a conclusion.

“Do you have any more of this magic ore?”

“A tidy pile in fact. You can have it if you wish.” He smiled knowingly.

“Thanks.” The young man nodded. “In unrelated news, did you hear of what happened to Lysandros?”

“The gambler?” The old man’s eyes turned sharp for a second, but he resumed his work without fail.

“The very same. It appears he committed suicide.” He focused on the old man’s back.

“A real shame. Was a good man I heard, deep down.” His comment was neutral, not tainted by knowledge.

“I believe so too. He caused head priestess Akacia quite a bit of trouble with his actions, though.”

“Ahhh, the lass never was good with pressure. She can lash out like a lioness, but hates getting pricked with the tiniest splinter.” He said with a deep sadness.

“You should visit her from time to time.” He said with a hand on his hip and a sigh.

“She doesn’t have any love for her old man, even I can tell that.” He put down his tools and leaned on the table.

“’Sometimes we cannot look upon the truth, because averting our eyes is easier’. Those were your words.”

Epiphanes’ shoulder twitched lightly when receiving those words.

“I do believe that children should appreciate their father. You did not give her the chance to learn that.”

“Typhos, my boy.” He turned around and showed his pathetic old face. “I devoted my life to the discovery of the world. The five elements-“

“Wasn’t it four?”

“-and the tides as well as the circling ceiling of the world. But nothing I ever did could compete with this one achievement, with my greatest creation.” A tear rolled down his dirty face. “My daughter is the only legacy I don’t want tainted by my foolishness. For that reason I can never meet her.”

The two men met eyes for a long time, but eventually the old man broke contact and wiped his face again, smearing the dirt all over. Typhos felt a certain melancholy from this sight. The old man was always excited and curious, never showed much dismay or scruple at anything his pupil did either.

But even so, this man had regrets, same as anybody else.

Same as him.

“You were a great mentor.” Typhos said honestly. “I will be going on another journey soon. Perhaps after that you will go somewhere I cannot find you next time. So I truly want to thank you for everything you did for me.” He bowed his head.

“This isn’t like you at all, boy.” The old inventor was a bit choked up, but he still had the swiftness belying his age to embrace the scholar. “I’m proud of you, no matter what your future will hold!”

“Please… unhand me… you’re sullying my clothes!” Typhos grumbled as he was covered in soot and who knows what else. The warm embrace was not at all unpleasant, he had to admit.

As the young scholar felt a hint of what he could never have, he did not lose sight of his goal. On the distant shores of Sarpedon he would have found that the struggles of the inhabitants continued even without his schemes. A storm was brewing.