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She pushed through the sludge covering her insides. The wine thickening the space between her bones and skin. The liquid coating the inside of her abdomen was viscous, making it hard to wade through. Hard to dig down deep.
Even worse to push past was the ache in her heart over Pelops. An ache she couldn’t forget, no matter how many times she batted it aside, shoved it behind and stomped on it. He was in front of her, blocking her way forward; behind her blocking her way back; beside her holding her back by both arms. Flinging them to shake him did not work, so she dragged him with her. Surely he could be used as kindling to her power.
She scrunched her eyes hard enough to hurt – focusing on the small ember of normalcy deep inside her head, her heart. Searching, searching, searching for herself inside herself—
A shadow of person formed in her mind, shrouded by darkness. A cold wind blew at her back, pushing her forward toward him. Definitely a him, without a face she couldn’t be sure, but the way his clothing billowed at his knees and nowhere else above – definitely a man.
He reached out to her, his hand made of smoke extending further than humanly possible. Her feet dragged toward him on their own accord, Pelops nowhere to be seen as the man’s entire being flourished out, blocking anything but himself from her sight.
At the same moment Persephone opened her mouth to speak to him, he disappeared, taking the darkness – and the sludge – with him.
A flash of searing pain stretched through her head down her spine, the fire burning through her veins. Crying out she fell to the ground, clutching the sides of her head. The red glow of the her eyelids and the heat caressing her arms told her the fire had finally burned to life.
Shaking uncontrollably, Persephone slowly sat back and dragged her legs in front of her, collapsing in on herself until her forehead rested on her thighs. Breathing slowly, focusing on stilling herself, calming herself enough to open her eyes again.
She stared into the fire, the image of that man burning on her eyelids with every blink. She wanted to use the flames before her to scorch him from her memory, shove a burning twig in her eye to erase his presence.
Though, she supposed she should thank the man who’d stalked them to the stream for helping her get the fire started, helping her past the difficulty the wine had caused her. Even if he was only inside her head.
Someone smacked her hard on the shoulder, squeezing twice before plopping down hard beside her. Elektra winced, rubbing her sore butt as she admired the flames before them. She dragged theamphoraeout from behind her back and poured Persephone a glass. Her fingers grazed Persephone’s as she passed the wine to her and her whole body shook.
“Ah! You’re freezing! Here,” she said, placing the wine on the ground and holding Persephone’s hands in her own, rubbing them to heat them.
Melia swayed over to them, spilling a thin trickle of wine down her wrist. “Iss so,” she said with a swallow, lengthening each ‘s’, “beat—uh,” she scrunched her eyebrows and pursed her lips in thought, deciding on “Isssnice,” before sitting across the flames from them. Her smile scrunched the corners of her eyes, and wine dribbled out one side of her mouth.
“How much has she had to drink?” Persephone mumbled to Elektra, though she doubted Melia would understand had she spoken any louder.
“Not sure,” she said dismissively. Her eyes landed on the flames once more, and a wicked smile broke across her face, the shadows around them painting her normally soft features dark and menacing. “Let’s tell ghost stories.”
Melia applauded, spilling the last few drops of wine onto her outstretched legs and whimpering.
5
A GIFT FROM OLYMPUS
Hades stared at his brother, one dark eyebrow raised in silent question as he waited for Zeus to bend to his will. Ideally, Zeus would make his decision quickly so that Hades did not have spend a moment too long in the brightly lit, incredibly distasteful and grand, gilded throne room of the Olympians.
It made him sick – and a little envious.
The semi-circle dais topped with eleven hulking thrones, each glowing their respective white-washed colours from within. Zeus, of course sat in the center-most one, an eagle near-constantly perched on the golden orb at the peak of it’s marble back. The others’ were not as fine as his, nor did they glow as offensively bright.
The hearth they surrounded was lit today, as it had been nearly every day since it’s initial lighting. The flames licking up the marble sides, created to look ever-burning though it was a fake, a delicately carved stand-in for the real, never-to-go-out one. The real hearth sat in another room, a temple of sorts, with Hestia guarding it and tending it with her life.
She had never liked Hades. He tended not to take her feelings personally though, not because none of the other’s got much pleasure out of his presence, but because she could not stand a single one of the Olympians, nor their offspring. Once he thought he had caught her smiling at him, but she was watching the birds sore off the peak of Olympus, only to scowl once she noticed Hades’ own smile plastered on his face in her direction.
Never again.
“Well?” Hades finally spoke. “I really do not have all day, brother.” Zeus cringed at the reminder of their relationship, but a moment later he regained his composure, resting chin on his fist, elbow on his knee. “I’ve got other bargains to strike; many people to torture.” He winked, acting as uncaring as he could, though in his mind he tortured Zeus to pass the time.
If he ever got the chance…
Zeus would be strung up high, high as his seat on Olympus, unable to move, unable to speak. He would have no use of his powers, Hades would ensure that first. And he would be forced to watch as the mortals slowly forgot about him, as he became a forgotten piece of history and faded from existence.
Literally fading until he was transparent and powerless, sent to spend the rest of his immortal life deep below the crust of the Earth. Deep below mortal kind. Where he would aimlessly move his body around the Fields of Asphodel, among the mortals who previously worshiped him, the mortals who forgot about him.
The worst way for a god to die. Even worse for the self-proclaimed King of the Gods.
Hades licked his lips, elation filling his cold heart as he imagined his brother helpless and forgotten. How sweet it would taste to watch him be forgotten, while Hades himself remained stronger than ever, his power refortified with every mortal demise.
