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She fears I’ll have a daughter.
As he flies backward, thrown by Demeter’s attack, Kore doesn’t feel the debris his body smashes against. He feels a strange sense of loss. Kore will have a daughter, and Demeter hates him so much she will never know a child that’s yet to come into existence.
“I won’t allow it,” Demeter screams, driven mad by jealousy she shouldn’t feel.
Kore watches her fly upward, his gaze mournful as it tracks Demeter through the fog.
That sadness evaporates when Kore realizes Demeter’s intention is to wound Hades, to wound a daughter that might currently grow in the womb of Kore’s bride.
“Fuck,” he mutters, scrambling out of the rubble created from a statue of the maiden Persephone. Kore’s damaged wing won’t fly. He curses Demeter as it twitches, a feeble attempt to lift him into the sky.
“Don’t touch her,” Kore yells, his voice lost in the mist. His mother hates the fantasy she’s painted for Kore and Hades—a perfect family life with a coveted daughter. Kore hates his mother for believing she has the right to harm the home he found with Hades.
“Hurt me all you want, you rotten bitch, but don’t you dare touch Hades!”
The mist parts at his words; by his command or Hades', he doesn’t pause to consider. Kore reaches up with his torches, aiming sacred fire at the form of his mother.
She is a blaze equal to the light of Helios' sun, a warm, orange glow that casts golden rays over the gloomy ground. Her scream drowns out the sounds of battle. Her voice silences the destruction, and Kore falls to his knees. Tears descend over his cheeks, silent rivers of emotion he doesn’t try to name.
Relief.
Grief.
Neither.
Both.
He watches as the flame eats away Demeter’s flesh. Eternal bodies burn differently, and the smell of her skin fills the surrounding air with the scent of a forest fire. Cedar, ash, and flame. Kore closes his eyes, inhaling the moment. Holding it and preserving the memory.
When he opens his eyes; his presence shifts, and his spine grows rigid with the weight of new responsibilities.
“Enough,” Kore says. One word that acts in place of a command.
The earth rumbles, parting to make way for a net of vegetation. It surrounds Demeter, trapping the flames and her screams.
42
Hades
Hades catches a bolt of lightning, taking advantage of everyone’s distraction with Kore’s rise to power—a rise she knows he deserves, one she’s certain was woven by the Fates. Hades is just as certain her victory here is foretold. She wraps her bident with Zeus' power, supercharging the weapon before she shoves it into Kronos' mouth and through the back of his neck.
Hades sheds her invisibility, revealing herself to her father’s shocked gaze. A smile lights her mouth.
“Remember, Kronos. Zeus dethroned you, but I will always be your undoing.” Her whispered words are for him alone. For the rest of Olympus, Hades raises her voice. “Athena, Ares, you know what to do!”
In a single command, her niece and nephew cover Kronos with a golden net, the one woven by Hephaestus, that no immortal being can escape.
Kronos lying prone makes him appear small—like an insignificant being—and Hades smiles down at him with an expression lit with spite.
“There you sit, and here I stand,” Hades says. “As it was always meant to be.”
Kronos' scowl amuses her enough that she releases a laugh, one that bounces through Olympus with the chill of Death.
Thanatos is always summoned by Hades' laughter. Mortals aren’t aware of that fact—though she doesn’t mete death, Hades does summon endings. She is the commander, and Thanatos her loyal soldier.
“You rang?” He asks with a droll tone, pale gaze drifting briefly over Kronos before giving Hades his full attention.
“Escort our favorite prisoner back to Tartarus,” Hades commands with a careless gesture. “Hecate and Hypnos can assist you.” She casts a glance at her nephew and niece, battered but standing proud. “As can Athena and Ares if they wish.”
