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“Sorry!” a masculine voice says with a note of panic. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Large hands ghost her arm, checking Hades for a wound.
The bruise on her pride hurts more than any physical mark—of which there are none. Hades sniffs in disdain as she looks up at the towering form of a god. She startles a second time; shocked by the stranger’s beauty. She doesn’t recognize him. The only gods she bothers knowing are the twelve Olympian gods of the pantheon. Neither mortals nor gods consider Hades a member of the Olympian pantheon. Before her connections to Erebus, Hades was unwanted on Olympus. Hades is the outcast of this realm. Those who feel brave whisper her name in secret corners, but most of the lesser deities in Olympus wouldn’t know her by sight. To them, she appears as all Erebians do; beings surrounded by the thrumming pulse of the void. Even gods fear the source of their creation, Erebus is the primordial foundation of their existence. From Chaos, darkness was born; and from that same darkness sprang their forbearers.
“Are you hurt?” the other god asks, drawing Hades out of her morose thoughts. Thoughts that plague her when she moves through Olympus.
“It’s fine,” Hades says, waving a pale hand in his direction. “I didn’t realize male gods were permitted on Zeus' private estate. I know he’s weird about those things.” Her brother hates male competition more than anything. His ego would never recover if Hera were to cast her gaze upon another man.
“Yeah, well, it helps when you know the right people,” he replies. The answer evading, but softened by a dazzling smile.
“Right.” Hades nods. She turns to move away from him, but the black chiffon of her skirt catches on a thorny bush. She yanks at the fabric, and the man stops her. His large hand against her wrist is warm like the summer sun.
“Don’t move,” he tells Hades. Tenderness envelops Hades–surrounding her with his voice and touching her with his gentle hands. He reaches for a pair of plain shears from the mortal’s mid-technological age. Hades appreciates the simplicity of his choice, but doesn’t comment. “I’ll unhook you. I don’t want the brambles to ruin your pretty dress.”
No one in Olympus believes black is a pretty color. They all say it’s the color of mourning, and no one outside of Hades' realm wears such a shade.
“You don’t have to lie and tell me it’s pretty. I know it’s not.”
Bright eyes look up at her from where the man kneels, and her breath stalls in her throat—astonished by the blue shade of that gaze. A blue that reminds Hades of a clear sea in late summer, cerulean and glowing with life.
Lesser gods aren’t usually so vibrant.
“Why would I lie?” he asks, dark golden eyebrows furrowing with the question. Hades, struck by how handsome she finds him, silently stares.
A stare that grows uncomfortable, it seems, when the lesser god clears his throat.
“Black is the color of mourning,” she replies, flushed and waving a dismissive hand. Dismissing him or the girlish flutter in her stomach, Hades isn’t sure. “No one finds mourning beautiful.”
He releases her skirt from the bramble—with a tap of the shears and a balmy pulse of spring energy. Hades hurries to thank him; though she remains diligent and doesn’t allow her hands to touch his skin. Somewhere, in hidden passions she tempers, Hades knows touching him would be akin to touching Chaos. Forbidden, but worth the damnation.
“I have to go now,” she rushes to say, before more words flow between them. “I’m late for an appointment with the king.”
He doesn’t try to stop her, but Hades can feel his eyes on her back as she makes her way up the handcrafted, golden disks that create a path toward Zeus’ home.
* * *
“You’re late,”Zeus says in lieu ofhello. He stands with strong arms crossed over a broad chest; he might be handsome to many, but to his elder sister Zeus is a pouting snot.
“I got caught on some bramble and had to untangle my skirt.” She gifts him a frown of her own. “Your gardens are lovely, but there’s an untamed, exotic feel to them now.”
“Demeter’s got some new people working under her. Hera likes it all because the disorder annoys me.” Zeus seems irritated with the lushness and that amuses Hades. Of late, she enjoys when her bratty brother suffers.
“Yes, you do like those perfectly shaped hedges that are molded in your likeness.” Hades retorts. Mocking her egotistical brother has always been too easy.
“We’re getting further from the point,” Zeus sighs, stepping away from the wall and moving toward a crystal decanter. “Scotch?”
“What period?” Hades doesn’t trust the palates of Olympians.
“First Renaissance,” Zeus says. His tone bleeds challenge.
“If you don’t water it down,” Hades says, as she settles onto the sofa in his office. She peers around the room, noting the changes since her last visit. There’s a portrait of a new child floating in a hologram frame, the gift of some mortal worshiper of the Post Diaspora. Hebe, the niece she has yet to meet. She is a beautiful child, small and delicate the way a baby ought to be; and a pang of something akin to remorse fills Hades' chest, tightening around her like a vise. As Zeus hands her a drink, the hold loosens. Allowing Hades to breathe out in relief.
“You’ll have to come back soon. Hera would love for you to meet Hebe.” A lie if Hades has ever heard one. Hades, and all from her realm, aren’t beloved by their peers. Revered as bad omens, evils that will bring damage to a baby rather than blessing, and Hades understands the words of her brother as lip service. None of his children received her blessings. All were anointed and named without her presence at their birth celebrations.
It’s for the best, she tells herself, even if the knowledge of being unwanted pains Hades. She’s better off far away from this world of vapid happiness. The Court of Olympus is a world of niceties she despises. Missing her nieces and nephews, and all the children she might’ve had, is a sacrifice Hades makes for her own gratification.
Something Zeus adamantly wishes to destroy, it seems, as he turns to her with a somber expression.
“Hades.” Her name is a grave word on his tongue, spoken with the sort of solemnity she’d expect if Zeus were delivering news of their mother’s death. What comes from his mouth is worse, Hades finds, when Zeus says, “I am commanding you to marry.”
