Hades and Seph

by Eileen Glass

  When he turns, Minthe is standing behind him, though a distance away. His hands are curled into fists, and he looks a mess, his chiton blood-soaked and torn in the front, a small corner of fabric folded over where the spear tip came out in front.

  “I won’t leave,” he says, and Hades takes Seph to his horse. Cerberus is confused, and Hades snaps his fingers when the dog growls purposefully toward Minthe.

  “Not yet,” he orders, and tries to make sure Seph is steady on the horse.

  He is not.

  “I won’t leave!” Minthe is louder. “Do you hear me, Hades? I’m not leaving! I am a nymph of the underworld! I was born here! I belong here more than you do!”

  Hades glares at him.

  He would not hesitate now to put Minthe down. He can’t even remember feeling sorry for him.

  Perhaps it is his apparent rejection of Hades’s rare mercy that erodes all sympathy in him, picking it clean off the bone, like acid once did to Hades’s flesh.

  “Your terms are banishment or death, nymph,” he says darkly. So perhaps it is best to stay!

  But he controls his emotions before saying the last part. If Minthe knew he would see Hades again, he would certainly be here when Hades got back. While that would give Hades the opportunity to be cruel and remind Minthe and himself that he is, in fact, the God King of the Underworld, and the Most Feared God Among Men—that manipulation would not to be fair to Seph, who wants the nymph alive in the upperworld. He wants him to be spared for some goddamn reason.

  And more importantly, Minthe is just not worth all that effort. If Hades leaves Seph again, after taking him to the palace, it will be as if Minthe’s murder is more important than his husband barely clinging to renewed life.

  Hades is not that kind of monster.

  He levitates so that he can both hold onto Seph and mount the horse at the same time. He takes up the reins around Seph’s torso, which leans heavily to one side. Hades calls invisible ropes out of thin air to bind the young god to him. While flying, he has to have absolute control over the horse, who tosses her head and dances sideways at first. She knows it’s time to sprint and fly very soon.

  “If you do not make it out of the gate, you will be killed by my dog.” And he says this as factually as possible. He is a feared god, but not a wrathful one.

  This whole day has been strange.

  But Hades is certain that he’s mitigated some of the damage witnessing Tartarus has caused. Seph has seen an act of mercy. It would not be good to tell Seph he is merciful or to present himself as such, but he does want Seph to realize that he is not Zeus. He acts with mercy, just a different kind. A mercy of logic and unhesitant action, whereas usually mercy is to stop action.

  A leader has to take a difficult path…

  He hopes he can make him understand.

  “You can’t leave me here! I’m worth more to you! I’m your mate! Hey! Hades!”

  Minthe waves his arms, beginning what looks like a tantrum. He’s in a panic.

  Perhaps Hades’s attention was more important than his love all along. Perhaps that is why he abducted Seph—to be the focus of Hades life once more.

  That would explain why he wanted me to punish him at first.

  So the best thing to do is to not look at him. Hades kicks the horse’s sides and gives some slack in the reins, signaling that it’s time. The horse bolts for the trees in the far off distance. His giants even farther off look over but do not pause in their task. Gentle, obedient souls. They knew nothing but toil in life and learned to enjoy it. Hades gives the horse her initial lift. Like the new human souls, the horse is unaware of what she can actually do. But once her feet are in the air, she knows no different, and Hades only has to use his magic occasionally to guide her up or down. The rest of his travel is effortless.

  Looking back, Minthe’s blue hair stands out in the distance. He shouts something unintelligible at the sky—“pig fucking” is a part of it—and he raises one fist, giving him the finger.

  Hades whispers one last spell, aimed at Minthe’s feet.

  “Be swift.”

  Just in case the nymph waits until it’s too late, or waits until he sees Cerberus return for him to start running. That would be just like Minthe, who had many endearing flaws at first. Nothing but flaws, in fact. His temper, his fighting, his playfulness, and later on… yes, even his cruelty.

  That is why Hades felt like he could be himself around Minthe. He did not feel so unlikable around the little devil.

  Maybe this is for the best after all.

  Hades will avoid changing his mind and going after Minthe, even though a little voice whispers, It’s not like Seph would know.

  He has hunted someone into the upperworld many times.

  But no. I can’t. The deal I made with Seph has to be just. I will follow through and hope the damage to Seph can be undone.

  The period with Minthe in my life is over.

  Thirty-Seven

  The horse runs at an all out pace, her neck stretched out, her hooves beating on invisible air but making the clatter of an angry guard charging down a cobblestone street, the kind of noise that calls mothers to leave their homes and bring their children inside.

  Hades holds tight. He knows this is not the most gentle way to transport an ailing body, but it is the fastest. Once Seph is in a bed, he may never leave there.

  What has Tartarus done to him? How everlasting can the damage be?

  Seph is a god in every sense of the word, despite not being able to find his magic. Will that matter in his recovery? There are many like him, but none who have been to Tartarus. Nor are there any lesser gods who underwent the same kind of physical torture as Hades and his siblings. Who’s to say Seph can’t be physically killed like a mortal in extreme ways?

  Gaia’s heart consumes essence. It consumes and pumps new life through all.

  How much of him do I have left?

  He carries the horse low and does not slow down, a dangerous approach to all, and the horse’s hooves act as a warning. His souls certainly can’t be trampled to death, but they can be hurt.

  There is only a musician or two at the palace’s public entrance, where they most like to play, and those that are inside must pack and leave right away.

  Hades guides the horse to the base of the steps. He would get closer, but horses are dumb, finicky animals. She does not see depth the same, and he cannot risk her rearing up in protest. Once they’re on the ground, however, she takes the stairs at an amazing speed. She is not aware enough to understand that she has power in her spirit form and to use it to, say, completely ignore the paddock gate. But every intention of hers is met, and his horses have gained confidence in his care. They bound from one plateau to the next, jumping over sets of twenty stairs, not losing footing.

  Inside the palace, he guides her to slow down, though reluctantly. They cannot careen through the dining halls and pillars at more than a controlled canter. Her hooves echo widely through the cavernous space, and Verah with her girls are already on the staircase leading to his private rooms. They run upwards to reach the top of the stairs in time, though he slows the horse even further. He cannot rush through such tight corridors. Especially if they happen upon another soul caught in the hallway for some reason.

  The girls flatten themselves to the walls. Thankfully, there are not many. Souls are staying away for a little while because of the hunt.

  He takes his horse all the way to the solarium. At this point it seems to cost too much time to slow down, though he soothes and walks the steed when they get there. She looks curiously at the fountain and fresh flowers, unaware of the emergency that’s brought her to this strange place. And Hades dismounts, using levitation and physical strength both to get Seph safely into his arms again.

  His head hangs all the way back. He’s fading fast.

  As a god, he will recover, Hades reminds himself, but how long will he sleep? Some gods can sleep a thousand years before they come back, from illness or
choice both.

  What if Seph’s fading means that he never comes back?

  Verah appears in the solarium with four others poking around her back, as Hades magics the door open to his quarters.

  “You need us, my king?” she calls timidly. His horse noses through the lush leaves of his plants, and she gives the animal a wide eyed stare. Then she notices Seph. “Is he dying?”

  “Send for Styx!” Hades yells back, because he’s already crossing though the den with Seph. He sets the god on their bed as soon as he can, the covers flying back at his will. Then he grabs the blankets with his hands and pulls them back atop his husband, making sure the cloak is in place first. No need to waste those protections.

  “Blankets will help,” he mumbles to himself, mumbling a litany of care instructions in his mind. “Feel secure. Extra layers. Don’t leave, Seph. Don’t slip away.”

  First he was in danger of vanishing completely. But now that his body is so damaged and the spirit is missing so many connections? There are other places to sink. Deep, dreamless sleep.

  Verah’s head pokes through the doorway.

  “The horse difficult to move—”

  “Did not hear me?!” Hades yells with rage. “Bring me the Goddess Styx immediately!”

  Verah drops to the floor at once, performing the contrite bow of someone in her culture. She also grabs her skirt at the knees, performing a Greek courtesy. She has always strived to learn his preferred language and culture.

  “Apologies, King. We are finding Styx.”

  “Good. That is all I need.”

  His voice is rough. He doesn’t want to yell at Verah, but he’ll yell at anyone right now. Every second passing by is like another year.

  I should just go finish Minthe myself.

  But then he would have to leave Seph.

  Everything hurts, mostly his heart and his head.

  He places hands on Seph like he’s checking for a fever, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what good that’s going to do.

  “I am serving well, my king?”

  She always asks this when he has a temper.

  “Yes, Verah, that will be all.”

  She straightens with grace, trying not to make sound. Then lingers in the doorway, looking back before leaving.

  “I get the horse,” she says, and who knows what means. Probably that she is worried about his plants.

  Hades waits until she’s gone and leans over his beloved’s face. Yes, in this state, he’s Hades beloved, because Hades can’t think of him any other way. He was so lively. So special.

  His trauma in Tartarus did not pale his face, and Hades takes his features in his hands, wondering if this a memory he will have to commit to keep forever. Did they have their last moments arguing over Minthe?

  I should have left that little wretch with the spear sticking out of his chest. I could have sent Cerberus to finish my work after we got home.

  And still, I could.

  “Cerberus!” he calls, realizing the dog is not in the room. He meant to give Minthe a head start. Opportunity to safely travel to the gate. But now that Seph is unconscious, that time has expired.

  Cerberus does not appear, and Hades is impatient. He stands from the bed, acknowledging that he can’t do anything anyway. He’s helpless until Styx arrives, and he might even be helpless then.

  “Come back to me and wake up,” Hades growls in the same tone he uses to command his dog. Then he leaves to find the disobedient hound, cursing him mentally.

  He finds Cerberus with his ears back and three girls pulling on his collar. They appear young, only a few years apart, with similar traits. They look like sisters. But these ones are quite old and have mastered their abilities to not get bit.

  Cerberus does not actively attack them. He is only vicious when the hunt command is given. But his warning snaps are ignored, and he is not smart enough to realize that he can’t be physically restrained. Even after growing three heads, he is still mostly just a regular dog.

  Looking at them gives Hades an idea. A better way to protect Seph. But such a thing will have to wait and see if he recovers first.

  “Girls, let him go,” he says and kneels to greet the dog. His fur is wet with real blood, something Hades hasn’t seen in a long time. Not since a satyr, compelled by a reward from Zeus, tried to sneak through the gate for the secrets to his wine. Now he has a much more gruesome mission. And if Hades was going to be fair, he would wait. Tartarus is so far away from the gate, Minthe can’t even hope to be halfway there yet.

  But that’s why he whispered the spell as he left Minthe. He knew he would cheat.

  “Hunt,” he tells the dog, holding the middle head briefly, projecting an image of Minthe. He’s careful to include the torn, bloody clothes. Dogs have a better sense of smell than sight, and with a command like this, Cerberus could make a mistake. A sock of Minthe’s would be better.

  But Cerberus is a smart dog, and Hades has trained him well. His heads tilt, thinking, looking curious, and Hades opens his eyes, ending the mental projection.

  Cerberus tries to figure it out.

  “Hunt,” Hades repeats and stands, pointing to the door.

  After only a second more, the dog is off, careening through the solarium and out the door with a lot less care than Hades had with his horse. An end table wobbles and gets knocked askew, the dog sailing over the nearby bench instead of going around.

  And Hades takes a deep breath, reminding himself that it’s over.

  It doesn’t feel over, because Minthe’s death is not by his hand, but now there is only Seph’s care to see to.

  I hope he makes it.

  Thirty-Eight

  Seph wakes up disoriented, his entire body aching in a way it never has before. Ever. He has not felt the strain of reaping wheat like the slaves have told him about. Fimus said that working when the fields are ripe and require long hours in the sun makes his arms weak and his muscles stiff every day. He said that any kind of movement hurt, even lifting them up over his head carrying nothing.

  Concerned, Seph told his mother to not make the field slaves work so long to harvest. And she explained that halving their labor now would starve almost all of them in the winter, when they are fortunate to be given full rations still from her stores. Also, she gives them double rations during the harvest, because hard work requires good food to keep illness away.

  She talked a bit like the requirement of food and labor was the workings of a good machine from which everyone benefits. When Seph asked for lesser hours for the young slaves, or maybe just for his a favorite slave only, she scoffed. She did not even respond, putting her back to him.

  Seph remembers all of this in a strange way. Like a dream about a dream. A story that he heard from another man.

  He cannot remember why he cared about Fimus. Only that his body ached, and Seph tried to fix it.

  But I did not work in the fields for too long today, did I?

  He tries to remember what he was doing yesterday. And his mind aches as well, muscles pulsing where he didn’t know he had any.

  He remembers all the pieces. He’s just not sure if these are things that happened to him, or things that he witnessed happening to someone else. It’s all very confusing, and for a moment he wonders if he was actually the blue-haired person, the one who was nearly killed.

  He touches his hair, which is too short. The texture of it doesn’t seem to match, and when he pulls a strand in front of his nose, he sees that it is a dark color. Ruddy, like clay dirt.

  So I am Seph. Someone who cares about slave boys.

  But why don’t I remember what I look like?

  He sits up, taking in the room, and nothing feels familiar to him. That includes the rather haggard face in the mirror against the wall.

  I’ve been here before. I think.

  I think…

  I think the stories are real. Some of them.

  A door opens, and Seph expects to see a woman with curly brown hair p
iled on her head, adorned by a laurel wreath. He expects her to be big, thick limbed and tall, but to move with light steps and gracefulness. He expects a prominent nose and strong jaw line—features that Seph very much likes on his own face.

  Or, he used to. Seph has no opinion of it now. The face doesn’t seem to belong to him, or to anyone important. It is just a face.

  And the woman who walks through the door is just a woman. Seph tries very hard to remember which woman it is, but she is not in any of his memories.

  “Oh, you awake now,” she says, and leaves right away on quick feet.

  Seph remembers another woman running once. She was smaller, with light skin, and she gathered up her dress around her knees to run in a bouncy way, with little steps. She had others around her, who grabbed his arms and pulled, trying to drag him away from… something dark.

  He touches his head.

  Am I real?

  What is all this?

  That, he decides, is the most important question at the moment. For he should be able to identify all the things about this room. Maybe that will help put his mind together.

  So he begins.

  Chair. Bed. Blanket on the bed. Window.

  The next one doesn’t come.

  Blanket for the floor?

  The thing for stepping on, what is it…

  It word doesn’t come.

  He frowns with frustration and moves on.

  Vase—no. Cup? No.

  He frowns at the container at the other side of the bed. There is a cup in front of it, but Seph suspects it is not only a cup. The cup has a second name, and the larger container behind it has a completely different name than what he can think of.

  But it is like a vase…

  Three people appear in the doorway, striding toward him, and Seph forgets his problem. There are so many things to notice about them. He pulls the blanket up, covering himself, wondering if he should put it over his head. They quickly surrounded him, and Seph can’t place any of their faces in his memories.