Chapter 1: The Feast of Mockery
The scent of crushed lilies and spilled ambrosia hung thick in the air, cloying and sweet. Golden light, refracted through crystal decanters holding liquified starlight, danced across polished marble floors and gilded columns that stretched towards an impossibly high, frescoed ceiling. Laughter, sharp and bright, bounced off the stone, mingling with the low thrum of divine gossip and the rhythmic clink of goblets. Gods and goddesses draped in shimmering silks and gleaming metals lounged on plush chaises, their perfect faces arranged in expressions of eternal amusement or profound boredom.
Valerius felt neither. He felt trapped. Trapped in a body that was no longer his own, trapped in robes of deep emerald silk that strained across his midsection, and trapped by the sidelong glances darting his way from every corner of the resplendent hall. His once lean, warrior’s frame, honed by centuries of celestial combat drills, had become… something else. Something soft. Something swollen. The defined musculature of his abdomen had surrendered to a pronounced, firm curve that pushed insistently against the fabric of his robes. It wasn't fat; it felt dense, alive, a constant, undeniable pressure.
And then there was that. The other constant. A throbbing, insistent ache beneath the silk, impossible to ignore, impossible to conceal. He’d tried shifting, tried subtly adjusting the drape of the robe, tried thinking of desolate battlefields – anything to quell the embarrassing swell tenting the fabric at his groin. Nothing worked. It was as much a part of his new divinity as the unsettling fullness in his belly.
He shuffled towards an empty chaise, his gait awkward, lacking its former warrior’s grace. Each step felt ponderous. He could feel the weight shifting inside him. He just wanted to sit down, blend into the background, become invisible for five blessed minutes.
"Valerius! Over here, you magnificent, burgeoning blossom!"
The voice cut through the ambient noise like a shard of glass. Jocus. Of course it was Jocus. The God of Merriment and Jest lounged nearby on a chaise already stained crimson with spilled wine. He wore robes of chaotic, clashing silks – violet, saffron, electric blue – that somehow suited his sharp, angular features and perpetually dancing eyes. He held a goblet carelessly, a lazy smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed Valerius's approach.
"Don't call me that," Valerius muttered, his cheeks flushing hot. He hated the blush; it felt juvenile, unbecoming of a god, even a newly minted, reluctant one like himself. Fertility. The word tasted like ash. He’d been a warrior, a protector! Now… this.
Jocus chuckled, a sound like tinkling, mocking bells. "Whyever not? It suits you. Positively radiant. Blooming, one might say." He gestured expansively with his goblet, sloshing more wine onto the already ruined silk beneath him. "Look at you! The very embodiment of… fecundity. It’s inspiring. Truly."
Valerius gritted his teeth, focusing on the chaise. Just get to the chaise. Sit down. Ignore him. He reached it, a low sigh escaping him as he prepared for the complicated maneuver of lowering his altered body without revealing too much or toppling over. He gripped the ornate armrest, knuckles whitening.
"Need a hand?" Jocus asked, his voice dripping with faux concern. "Or perhaps a winch? That belly looks… substantial. What’s incubating in there, eh? A minor constellation? A new breed of ambrosia-sniffing hound?"
"Shut it, Jocus," Valerius hissed, trying to angle his body sideways. He bent his knees slowly, carefully, feeling the unfamiliar pull across his lower back and the terrifying shift of weight in his abdomen. The silk tightened alarmingly across his hips and thighs. He could feel the heat radiating from his own flushed skin, the prickling awareness of dozens of divine eyes subtly shifting towards him. A low murmur rippled through the nearby gods – not quite laughter, but close. Interested. Amused. Observing the spectacle of the fallen warrior-god grappling with his absurd new form.
He managed to lower himself halfway, a grunt escaping him. The chaise groaned softly under his unfamiliar weight. Almost there. Just… settle.
Jocus leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "Careful now," he purred, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried. "Wouldn't want to… pop. Or," his gaze flicked downwards, lingering pointedly below Valerius's waistline, "have that spring free and salute the assembly. Though," he added, taking a slow sip of wine, "it does seem rather eager to make an appearance. Practically waving hello from under the silk. Feeling… fruitful today, are we?"
The words landed like physical blows. Valerius froze, halfway seated, his face burning crimson. He could feel the fabric tenting even more prominently now, a mortifying betrayal. The whispers intensified. A titter of genuine laughter came from a nearby group of goddesses. He saw their perfect lips curve, their eyes flicker downwards before darting away. Humiliation, hot and acidic, flooded him, drowning out the scent of lilies and wine. It wasn't just the belly anymore. It was everything. The grotesque duality of his form – the swollen, feminine curve warring with the insistent, masculine arousal. The object of divine mockery.
He couldn't breathe. The golden hall, the glittering gods, Jocus's smirking face – it all blurred. The pressure in his belly felt suddenly suffocating, the ache below unbearable. He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't even a dignified god. He was a joke. Jocus's favorite punchline.
With a choked sound that was part gasp, part sob, Valerius shoved himself violently upright. The sudden movement made him stagger, his swollen belly swinging awkwardly. He didn't care. He couldn't stay here another second. He turned, ignoring Jocus's bark of surprised laughter, and lurched away from the chaise, away from the feast, away from the watching eyes. He moved with a clumsy, waddling gait he despised, the silken robes clinging and shifting around his transformed body. The whispers chased him like hungry birds – sharp, amused, pitying. He pushed through a shimmering curtain of woven moonlight, stumbling out onto a deserted balcony overlooking the swirling nebulae of creation.
The cool, silent vastness of the cosmos offered no comfort. Leaning heavily against a cold marble column, Valerius squeezed his eyes shut. Below the balcony railing, the infinite stars blurred into streaks of light. The sounds of the feast – the laughter, the music, Jocus's voice – seemed amplified now, echoing cruelly in the sudden quiet. He pressed a trembling hand against the firm, undeniable swell beneath his robes. It pulsed faintly, a constant reminder of the power he never wanted. And lower down, the other insistent throb remained, a humiliating counterpoint. He was changing. Unstoppably. And every god in that golden hall had seen it. Had laughed.
The cold marble bit into Valerius’s palms as he gripped the balcony railing, knuckles bone-white. Below, the swirling nebulae pulsed with indifferent light, vast and silent. Useless. The sounds of the feast – Jocus’s sharp laughter, the clatter of goblets, the low murmur of divine amusement – pressed against the curtain behind him like a physical weight. Hot shame still crawled up his neck, warring with the insistent, humiliating throb beneath his straining silk robes. The pressure in his belly felt denser now, a heavy anchor pulling him down, while that other pressure… it was a relentless ache, impossible to ignore. A crude, base demand.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe… maybe if he just… took care of it. Quickly. Brutally. Just a moment’s mechanical relief. A pause in this constant, mortifying torment. Anything to stop the persistent swell tenting the fine fabric, to quiet the frantic pulse that echoed Jocus’s mocking words in his head. Practically waving hello.
His hand, trembling slightly, started to move beneath the draped silk, fingers fumbling towards the unbearable tightness. He just needed a second. One moment of oblivion, of not feeling like a grotesque exhibit. His breath hitched, anticipation warring with self-loathing. He was a god, reduced to this – hiding on a balcony, frantically trying to silence his own body’s crude betrayal.
He pushed the silk aside roughly, the cool night air a shock against heated skin. Focus. Just get it over with. He gripped himself, the touch sending a jolt through him, part relief, part deeper shame. He bowed his head, bracing against the railing, muscles tensing. Almost–
A soft clearing of a throat, impossibly close.
Valerius froze. Utterly rigid. Ice water seemed to flood his veins, extinguishing the heat of shame and arousal in an instant, replacing it with pure, paralyzing horror. His hand was still there, hidden only by the bunched silk. He didn't dare breathe.
"Valerius?"
The voice was calm, deep, and unmistakable. Delmon.
Slowly, agonizingly, Valerius pulled his hand away, letting the silk fall back into place. He kept his back turned, pressing his forehead hard against the cold stone of the column beside him. His entire body burned. Had Delmon seen? How much? How long had he been standing there, shrouded in the balcony’s deeper shadows near the far railing? Valerius’s mind raced, conjuring the worst: Delmon witnessing his frantic, desperate fumbling, seeing the obscene outline, watching his pathetic attempt at relief. The humiliation was absolute, suffocating. Worse than Jocus. Infinitely worse. Because it was Delmon.
He forced himself to turn, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere near Delmon's impeccably shod feet. Delmon stood tall and composed, his own dark robes simple but radiating an effortless authority Valerius envied and, secretly, found devastating. His sharp-boned face was impassive, impossible to read in the starlight. There was no smirk, no flicker of disgust, no hint of amusement. Just… calm observation.
"Delmon," Valerius managed, his voice a hoarse scrape. He couldn't look up. The pressure in his belly felt like a boulder. The arousal, though momentarily stunned by shock, was already a rekindling ember beneath the silk, a fresh betrayal.
"Bit much in there," Delmon stated, his tone neutral. He gestured vaguely back towards the curtain. "Jocus is particularly… effervescent tonight." He didn't mention the state Valerius was in. Didn't acknowledge the frantic movement Delmon must have seen, the obvious strain of the robes. He simply stood there, offering neither pity nor judgment. Just… presence.
Valerius swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. His cheeks felt scalding. "Yes," he rasped. "Effervescent." He risked a glance upward. Delmon's eyes, dark and intelligent, met his briefly. Valerius looked away instantly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d always admired Delmon – his quiet competence, his unwavering focus, the sheer, unshakeable presence he commanded without trying. Seeing him now, after that… it felt like sacrilege. He was ashamed he’d even looked.
"There's news," Delmon continued smoothly, as if discussing the weather. He stepped closer, the scent of ozone and distant storms clinging faintly to him. "Circling the hall. Important. Tethys just arrived, straight from the Deep Currents. Looks… agitated."
Valerius blinked, trying to process through the fog of humiliation. Tethys? Agitated? That usually meant trouble in the mortal realms, or worse, with the older Titans. News that couldn't be ignored.
"As new gods," Delmon added, his gaze steady on Valerius’s averted face, "we'd be fools not to hear it firsthand. Better than listening to Jocus's distorted echo of it later."
He paused, then extended his hand slightly, not quite an offer to help, more an indication of the direction. "Shall we? Before the real chaos starts?"
Valerius stared at that hand for a moment, then back at Delmon’s impassive face. No mention of the balcony. No flicker of awareness about the frantic struggle Delmon had undoubtedly interrupted. Just polite, detached pragmatism. It should have been a relief. Instead, it coiled into a new kind of shame. Delmon’s discretion was a mirror reflecting just how pathetic Valerius’s situation truly was. Something so mortifying it demanded deliberate, silent ignoring.
The throb beneath the silk pulsed again, a mocking counterpoint to Delmon’s composure. Valerius flinched inwardly. He couldn’t stay out here. Couldn’t face Delmon any longer. Couldn’t bear the thought of what Delmon must think, even if he was too polite to show it. And the news… it mattered. He was still a god, however grotesque his current form.
He straightened his spine as much as the swollen curve of his belly allowed, ignoring the renewed, insistent ache. He smoothed the rumpled silk over his hips, a futile gesture. He couldn’t meet Delmon’s eyes.
"Yes," he mumbled, the word thick. "Right. News." He took a shaky step towards the shimmering curtain, away from the dark sanctuary of the balcony and back into the golden, judging light.
The shimmering curtain parted like liquid gold, releasing a fresh wave of sound and scent – laughter like shattering crystal, the heavy perfume of spilled nectar, the cloying sweetness of ambrosia. Valerius flinched, stepping back into the golden glare. He kept his gaze lowered, focusing on the intricate mosaic floor, the shifting hems of divine robes, anything but the faces he knew were tracking his ungainly return. Delmon walked beside him, a pillar of calm silence, radiating an aura that subtly parted the throng. Valerius felt exposed, the tight silk a second skin amplifying every jiggle, every shift of the dense weight in his belly, every persistent throb below.
"There he is! The prodigal sprout returns!" Jocus’s voice sliced through the din, sharp and delighted. He’d abandoned his wine-stained chaise, swirling a fresh goblet as he minced towards them, his multicolored silks fluttering. "Did the cosmos offer profound insights, Valerius? Or was it just… indigestion?" His eyes danced, already tracing the outline of Valerius’s strained robes with malicious glee. "Still looking impressively… ripe. Positively bursting with—"
Jocus’s words died mid-sentence. His gaze flicked past Valerius, landing squarely on Delmon. The smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of wary surprise, then smoothed into something resembling politeness. "Delmon! Didn’t see you lurking in the shadows. Keeping our burgeoning blossom company?" The edge was still there, but blunted, cautious.
Delmon merely offered a curt nod, his expression unchanging. "Jocus." He gestured towards two vacant chaises placed unexpectedly opposite each other near a quieter, yet still visible, alcove. "Sit." It wasn't a request. Valerius, desperate to be out of the direct line of fire, practically collapsed onto one chaise, the frame groaning under his unfamiliar weight. He sank into the plush cushions, the relief of sitting warring with the renewed pressure on his swollen abdomen and the maddening constriction below. Delmon settled opposite, his posture effortlessly regal, making Valerius feel even more like a misshapen lump.
Jocus hovered for a second, the unspoken command from Delmon hanging in the air. He shrugged, his usual flamboyance dampened, and perched on the very edge of the chaise next to Valerius, leaving a deliberate gap. He swirled his goblet, eyeing Delmon with thinly veiled curiosity. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company amidst the revelry? Not usually your scene, is it?"
Before Delmon could answer, a ripple of silence moved through the hall, originating near the towering entrance. The music faltered, conversations hushed. All eyes turned as Tethys, Goddess of the Deep Currents, strode in. Her usual serene composure was fractured. Her robes, woven from shifting blues and greens, seemed to churn like a stormy sea, and her face was pale, etched with genuine distress. She scanned the room, her gaze sharp, searching. It landed on Delmon.
"Delmon," her voice, usually a tranquil murmur, carried clear and urgent across the suddenly quiet hall. "The currents whisper catastrophe." She moved towards their alcove, the crowd parting silently before her palpable anxiety. "Not war. Not famine." She stopped before them, her eyes wide. "Barrenness."
Jocus leaned forward, his earlier jibes forgotten. "Barrenness? As in…?"
"The mortal realms," Tethys breathed, gripping her own arms. "Not localized. Not gradual. A… blight. Spreading. Crops fail to seed. Livestock bear nothing. Wombs…" She shuddered, the word heavy. "Wombs remain fallow. It’s not natural decay. It feels… parasitic. A silencing of life."
Valerius felt the dense weight in his belly shift, a strange internal pulse resonating with Tethys’s words. Barrenness. The word echoed in the sudden quiet of his own mind, momentarily overshadowing his personal humiliation. He felt a bizarre, unwelcome tug, a resonance with the very concept she named.
"Who?" Delmon asked, his voice low but cutting through the stunned silence around them.
Tethys shook her head, her hair like dark kelp swirling. "Unknown. Cloaked. But powerful. Its signature is… negation. Not destruction, but void. It siphons potential. It stops life before it can even flicker." She looked directly at Delmon, then her gaze swept to include Valerius and Jocus. "The Pantheon needs eyes on the ground. Subtlety. You three… you operate well." Her eyes lingered on Valerius with an unreadable expression – not mockery, but assessment. "Especially you, Valerius. This… touches your domain most acutely. You might feel it where others cannot."
Valerius’s stomach clenched. Go down there? In this body? Exposed to mortals? The humiliation he felt here would be a thousandfold worse amidst the fragile beings whose lives depended on the very forces now warping his own form. He opened his mouth, a protest forming, but Delmon spoke first.
"Understood." Delmon’s gaze swept over Valerius and Jocus. "We go. Now. Preparations are minimal. Tethys, pinpoint the epicenter."
Tethys nodded, relief softening her features slightly. "The plains of Eidolon. A farming heartland, now a silent, dusty graveyard."
As Tethys retreated, the low murmur of conversation began to rise again in the hall, though many eyes still lingered on their alcove. The immediate pressure of the mission momentarily held Jocus in check. He tapped his goblet thoughtfully against his knee.
"Right. Eidolon. Dusty plains. Barren wombs. Cheery." He took a long sip. "Subtlety.Got it. Blend in. Observe." He then turned his head slowly, deliberately, towards Valerius. The familiar, wicked glint was back in his eyes, fully restored now that Tethys’s urgency had passed and Delmon seemed focused on logistics. A slow, wide grin spread across Jocus’s face.
"Blend in," Jocus repeated, his voice dripping with faux innocence laced with venom. He let his gaze travel slowly, pointedly, down Valerius’s seated form – the silk stretched impossibly taut over the pronounced, firm curve of his belly, the strained fabric bunching awkwardly over his hips, the undeniable bulge tenting the fabric between his thighs despite Valerius’s desperate efforts to shift the robes. "Right." Jocus chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "So, Valerius, love… planning on passing yourself off as a very devout, very fertile earth mother pilgrim? Or maybe a wandering merchant specializing in… miraculous fertility idols?" He cocked his head, eyes gleaming. "Honestly, darling, that ensemble? In the mortal realm? They’ll either worship you on the spot for a harvest deity come to life… or burn you as a very confusing, very pregnant demon." He leaned in conspiratorially, though his voice carried. "Maybe bring a very large sack. You know… for camouflage. Or for the inevitable offerings. Or," he smirked, "just to catch whatever might… spring loose during the journey."
The wave of humiliation crashed over Valerius anew, hotter and more suffocating than before, amplified a thousandfold by the horrifying reality of the mission. He could feel the eyes of nearby gods and goddesses, their amusement reignited by Jocus’s cruel precision. The pressure in his belly tightened, almost painfully. The ache below pulsed, a traitorous, insistent rhythm mocking his plight. He stared straight ahead, past Delmon’s impassive face, seeing not the golden hall, but the dusty, accusing emptiness of Eidolon – and the terrified, desperate faces of mortals confronted by the grotesque, swollen parody of the god sent to save them. The thought of walking among them, exposed, a walking symbol of fertility gone bizarrely, humiliatingly wrong, sent a fresh tremor through him. He clenched his fists on his thighs, the silk bunching further, and felt a terrifying, unwelcome dampness bloom in the strained fabric below his belly.