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“What happened?” Hades asks, her voice as sharp as the blade she pulls from her sheath.
Ares doesn’t flinch at the appearance of her weapon. He’s known greater pain than Hades can inflict, she’s certain, and he will know worse violence after this day.
“Athena heals quicker than anticipated,” Ares replies with a low chuckle. “She came up behind me. Kore should’ve had a straight shot to you while I was preoccupied with her.”
“I didn’t ask what should’ve happened, Ares. I asked what went wrong.”
Hades presses the tip of her blade at the hollow of Ares' exposed throat. Death doesn’t take gods; Thanatos and his violent counterparts know to leave their souls. But gods bleed, they hurt, and they heal. Some wounds fester for years before closing. Hades wonders how long it takes for a god to regrow his eye.
“Demeter happened,” Ares remains calm, despite the ichor dripping from the place where Hades' weapon digs into his skin. “She grabbed Kore out of the sky with a massive, thorny vine.”
Hades turns from him, dropping her weapon as she makes her way back to her throne. Ares visibly startles when Kronos, body too big for the cavern, shifts near Hades' chair. It amuses her that a war god fears the might she wields. Not even Zeus could control their father, but Hades does.
“Bring Zeus to me,” Hades tells Ares. Dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “Tell him to come greet his father, before I send his father to fetch him.”
Ares understands her threat, and bows before his black wings reappear. He moves to the cavern’s wide, open edge, falling into the sky with a graceless swoop.
Once Ares is out of sight, Kronos leans forward. His massive head is uncomfortably warm on Hades' left side.
“Do you think you can win, my child? Remember when you suffered for centuries in my gut, waiting for rescue? Zeus saved you from me, according to your mother. What makes you believe you can overthrow the one who usurped me?” His whisper of a voice reminds Hades of erosion—the decay of time woven in each syllable.
Kronos is ancient—the Keeper of Time—and like the Fates, he sees the cosmos’ continuous motions. Past. Present. Future. Kronos knows them intimately. Hades, as his keeper and ruler over the Fates, is aware that her grasp over the flow of time is nothing in comparison to either her father’s or the Maid, Mother, and Crone’s.
Kronos climbs into Hades' mind, rooting in her deepest insecurities. For centuries, her father tried to bury himself in her cracks. He hoped to break Hades, wrench her open, and make her putty in his manipulative hands. He found nothing but harsh indifference. Even with her borrowed children—whom she loves deeply—Hades' heart remained steady. Impenetrable. Yet, Kore climbed into those cracked spaces. He broke her open and left her vulnerable.
She’s raw with yearning for Kore, and Kronos uses that to his advantage.
“What makes you think he wants you, Hades?” Kronos continues. Long fingers brush through her hair, pushing a portion behind her ear; loving like a father ought to be. Kronos isn’t a father. Fathers don’t eat their children or lock them in Tartarus. Hades forgets this as Kronos' voice erodes her senses.
“Demeter must know her child better than you, girl. Why would he want the Land of the Dead when Kore could be here? Standing beneath the sun god’s touch—that’s the way flowers grow, Hades. Rhea taught you that, if nothing else.”
Hades draws away from Kronos' touch—the mention of Rhea is a wound she can’t name. A paper cut that burns at the slightest touch of air, annoying and infinite. Rhea’s wound lingers worse than Kronos', and Kronos made Hades bleed.
“Leave me,” Hades commands her father. Her voice comes out steady, but she knows Kronos hears the warble of her throat. That’s why he leans back with a deep chuckle, and the sound feels like a Tartarean promise.
Hades places the thought in the back of her mind when Thanatos enters her cavern. Days ago he was still a boy—near manhood, but not transformed by his final stage of life. It’s rare for gods to wear the visage of wizened mortals; only the Crone enjoys such a face. Even Hades is too vain to adopt the deep-set wrinkles the Crone wears like armor.
Thanatos kneels before her. His gray eyes dart to Kronos but he doesn’t give any other indication that he’s bothered by Kronos' presence.
“My queen,” Thanatos begins. He left her name along with his childhood face, and Hades regrets the change. Of all of her adopted children, Thanatos is her unparalleled favorite. “Zeus sent word.”
“I bet he did,” Hades chuckles. With a casual gesture of her pale hand, Hades commands Thanatos to relay Zeus' message.
“He said to stand down or we will suffer great consequences.” An amused expression lights Thanatos' face and lifts the corners of his mouth.
Hades glances back at her father. Kronos sits with his usual, careless grace. Hair as dark as Hades’ falls over Kronos' shoulder; Hades hates how much she looks like her father. She hates that they share every feature, with the exception of their eyes. Kronos' eyes are stained the color of midnight and flecked with stars. Hades watches his eyes as a falling star shoots across one and through the other. She releases a soft breath, annoyance lost in the sound.
“Go,” she says to Kronos. “Wreck your usurper.”
A cruel grin lights Kronos' face—a handsome face that charmed Rhea—and he stands. The mountain moves with him, trembling beneath Kronos' intentional steps.
Hades watches the way his wings—the same color as his eyes and flecked with constellations—unfurl at the mouth of the cave. When Kronos flies he blocks Helios' sunlight, darkening Olympus with his form. A cruel expression twists Hades' face as she images Zeus quivering with fear.
Choke on your pride, Zeus.
34
Zeus
