Hades and Seph

by Eileen Glass

  He leans back a little. His eyes are wet too.

  And Hades says, “Just stay with me, Seph. Then it’ll be okay.”

  Seph sniffs, then rubs his nose. It’s a little bit easier to breathe now. He’s aware of the oddest things, like the feeling of every blink and the wetness of his tongue. Things that he thinks are supposed to be normal, but nothing feels that way.

  Except for Hades. Whether this is his body or not, he and Hades are married.

  Hades is his.

  And everything about Hades, from the sound of his voice to the feeling of his clothes—it’s all exactly the way it’s supposed to be.

  “I just asked you to stay,” Seph points out. “Now you’re asking me.”

  “My meaning is entirely spiritual. Although, I don’t think you can travel as a spirit anymore. It will help me a lot if you don’t try. I won’t be gone for long, Seph. You can probably sleep while I’m away. I’ll stay with you until then, all right? You have to be tired. You’re so weak.”

  There is a little flare of irritation, but it is like one of those fleeting thoughts before sinking into sleep.

  He thinks again of the woman he knows—the mother who is missing.

  He will ask more about her later.

  “I would like that. Will you help me lay down? My legs are not moving.”

  “Yes. It will be a long time before you can walk again. But not too terribly long, Seph. You are a god like me, and in a matter of months, you will regain your strength and your memories. I know it. I haven’t lost you yet.”

  Hades straightens out his legs for him and eases him down into the pillows. He kisses Seph, and more of that bedroom memory comes back. His hands all over Hades. The way they moved together.

  “You are mine. And I am… Persephone.”

  Hades’s thumb brushes his cheek. “You like to be called Seph.”

  Forty

  Hades travels to the stable with his head low, his crown left behind and forgotten somewhere in the room with Seph. He assumes Verah knows where it is and has been keeping it safe. Just now, he can’t remember where he usually keeps it. She’s the one who always fetches it from some cabinet every morning.

  Without his children, who knows what state he would be in. They keep things running without him. The new arrivals are looked after—and he has heard that already the boats are packed a little more than normal.

  His palace has filled up with children again, many souls taking it upon themselves to simply be present, either to protect Seph or to express their condolences. From a distance, of course. They know not to bother him.

  And if the palace had been filled like this on the day that he was taken, they probably never would’ve had this catastrophe in the first place.

  Was Minthe behind the hunt that took place just before Seph was taken? Did he purposely empty the palace? The souls who ran were very new. Perhaps a bit too new to already be braving the run…

  But there have been early runners before…

  Lately, his thoughts often turn to Minthe. If not wondering where the nymph might be now, as though he plans to find out, he is always wondering where he went wrong. And how to make sure that such a thing never happens again.

  That is the purpose for him leaving today.

  It is an entirely cumbersome process, and while he answers, somehow, to the few who speak to him—Is Seph all right? Will he be at dinner today? I hope he recovers soon—that is Alfric, and Hades mumbles something along the lines of Seph still being in recovery—

  Though all of this is true, his mind is always somewhere else.

  And taking his horse high into the air, traveling almost vertically as though climbing a steep hill, he feels none of the freedom and gut clenching adrenalin that he usually enjoys. Only impatience.

  When he gets to the gate, an island that hovers in the air, the horses rears up, unhappy with the surrounding barking dogs. They are all hounds, of a very generic kind, since dogs seem to be unaware of their individual characteristics. And thanks to his own magic, they are black instead of gray or white. This magic sticks since the dogs are not aware of themselves enough to change it.

  These ones do not change form at all. It was very rare for Cerberus to do so on his own and become one body. They are darkly colored by his hand to offer camouflage and protection. And being the guardians of the gate, Hades figured they ought to look intimidating.

  They are ferocious, howling and yapping up a storm, making his horse dance as if she wants to bolt. But she’s too well trained for that. He gives her a pat on the neck, speaking softly, before stepping down. And she scrapes at the dirt with her front hoof.

  “It’ll be all right,” he tells his good steed, and repeats the words for himself and in his head as well.

  Now it will be.

  He wades through happy gazes and slobbering licks, every good dog sniffing his knees and waiting with their tails wagging. He pats them on the head as he passes, as many as he can. But he is not joyful to see them, as he usually would be.

  He locates Hecate, the Guardian of the Gate and the mistress of the dogs. She rests atop the enormous, magnificent entryway, her hammock strung across the boughs of two ancient trees he has growing on either side of the arch frame.

  He scolded her when he first saw this. The gate is supposed to be intimidating. But she scoffed and informed him that the job was quite boring. The souls come in a different way, wandering on their own through any forest around the world until real blends with spiritual and they find the River Styx. Through curiosity and mysterious beckoning, they follow the winding river bank and gather themselves at the dock to await Charon.

  Hecate will only have something to do when someone besides a soul wants to travel through. Gods will fly to the island with the dogs, and nymphs can summon her to ask for passage.

  It is a long, unfulfilling appointment. But no one has snuck past the gate since he put her in charge.

  “I thought I would see you again.” When she raises herself out of the hammock, walking atop the gate’s arch without care for the uneven bricks under her feet and the slim ledge, a duplicate form of hers is left resting in the hammock. And that form turns its head to look at him—another face still resting with its nose pointed straight up.

  Hecate thought Cerberus’s new form was such a neat trick, somehow she practiced it and learned the skill herself. Only, she separates into what she calls her sisters, and they’ll behave and speak as if they are one person.

  Hecate’s understanding of her own power and experimentation has always intrigued him. But he never thought he would have a use for her ability to split into three selves. Until now.

  This one is the original Hecate, with her key resting on a necklace, atop her breasts. Her clothing is scarce and tribal, reflecting the dress of those cultures with a strong belief in magic. Hecate loves to do them little favors, keeping their superstitions alive.

  “You had a brain parasite, I think. When I heard what the little blue-haired nymph had done, and the fact you had spared him, I sent you a spell to eliminate it. Since you are here, I assume it worked?”

  She smirks.

  “It is not that,” he replies, irritated, though he feels mostly angry at himself.

  How easy would it be to send his hound, or anyone of these, after the blue-haired twit? How easy would it be to at least tell Zeus what the nymph had done? Or Artemis? Or any one of the cousins who sparred over Seph?

  While they wouldn’t exact revenge with the passion or fury that Minthe deserves, they at least have enough family loyalty to do what needs to be done.

  I’m keeping my promise to a boy who probably can’t remember me making it. Because his presence changes me.

  “I have a new job for you. So you may need to split yourself again. Or make one of these duplicates change whatever you’ve assigned them to.”

  This gets the attention of the other two. One rises and nudges the other awake, and both silently come alongside the original Hecate. They
stand with their backs inward, facing out in all directions, the other two watching in an indirect way. They are submissive, letting the original Hecate do all the speaking for them.

  Hades has always wondered how much autonomy each Hecate has. One carries a lantern, which she uses to appear at crossroads sometimes for a mortal summoner. One carries a dagger and a whip for obvious reasons. She is the enforcer.

  “About your… duplicates…” He’s not sure if the other two will mind. “Do they carry all the same powers as you? Are they truly separate or do they have to stay within proximity of you to be useful?”

  Now the other two heads look directly at him, and the one with the whip crosses her arms.

  “We are not slaves!” she says, and the key-holder looks amused. “I am Hecate. You may address me if you like. I am as powerful and strong-willed as either one of my sisters.”

  Hades nods once, keeping a frown from his features. Hecate is an odd one. She has never shared how she came to duplicate herself as more than just a mirage—anyone can make a mirage or a half-minded slave. But if it’s true that she duplicated herself… that she made another god with her own powers…

  Well, that shall be the first.

  He has never tried to test her possible lie before.

  “I have need of a guardian. One who is capable of great magic as well as having advanced skill with physical weapons.”

  “Well, we can all do that,” says the one with the key. She and the lantern bearer lean on each other. There is barely enough thickness on the gate’s ledge for them to stand.

  “The job is constant. There is no rest and very little sleep. I admit, you will be a servant. Though, not a mistreated one.”

  The warrior version of Hecate looks intrigued, though the one with the lantern goads, “Then I suppose there will be great compensation for such a difficult job! Why, there must be. For otherwise, we would be slaves serving an ungrateful master.”

  Hecate with the key tsks.

  That has been an odd little thing Hades has never figured out. They are all Hecate, and if they were to switch the items they carry, they could probably fool him into speaking to any one of them. He has no way to tell.

  Yet, they are slightly different. It is like Hecate truly did make herself sisters—triplets—but she has insisted that they are all herself. She did not, say, birth twins and warp their form so terribly.

  The crossroads Hecate often makes a sneer and snarl about payment. Hecate lives on this island, with the dogs and the trees and her hammock. She could have greater luxuries if she wished, but she has not asked for any such compensation. The crossroads Hecate still seems to think that it should be offered.

  Hades says, “As always, if you have a request of me, I will evaluate it.”

  She cuts in, ignoring her sister’s hand raised to stop her. “You do that for any one of your citizens, even the little wisps, so I do not see how—”

  “Hush, sister!” says Hecate with the weapons. She falls from the gate with merely a step and drops straight down, landing curled over her knees, on bare feet. She stands with elegant posture and walks with small, balanced steps, as though invisibly wearing a fancy gown.

  “What sort of protection job is this? Is there great danger? Is there an unbeatable foe?” Her eyes widen with delight for the last statement, her smile eager.

  “I still need you here for the protection of the gate.” He is not sure which of them to address now. He’s sure Hecate loves the confusion. “If it is true what you say, I can borrow one of you for this job and the other two of you should be able to maintain the defense here. Is that correct?”

  “As if I have a choice,” says the crossroads Hecate. She swings her lantern back and forth, annoyed, and then eyes him through slits, as if she is considering hurling the flame. But her lips quirk mischievously and no action is taken.

  Hecate with the key only looks serious and thoughtful.

  The warrior speaks loudly and steps in front of him, commanding his attention away from the other two.

  “I can protect the gate and take the job. You are not speaking to three of us, Hades. I have merely extended myself into three different bodies.”

  “They are the most realistic mirages I’ve ever seen.” Did he have it wrong this whole time? Has the warrior, usually silent and impassive, been the real Hecate this whole time?

  “No part of me is a mirage. No part of me is lesser. And I accept your offer. Though, understand that any god allowed to live under your rule is already an indentured servant. If I do not agree to your terms, you will simply cast me into the sunlit place and wait for me to beg to come back.”

  While Hecate and he are about the same age, she grew up in a world without a singular ruler who held any laws. Just an awful bull who trampled by once in a while, and the others would stay out from under his feet.

  Unlike Stx, who is demure and quiet, Hecate will always talk about his authority as if it is a thing he claimed yesterday.

  “I would try to convince you that this is something you want to do first,” he answers honestly.

  “Pah!” The lantern bearer rolls her eyes. “Such a nice tyrant!”

  She is shushed by the one wearing the key, who steps off the ledge.

  “Although this makes me seem as faithful and mindless as one of your guard dogs…” She gestures to the animals who have surrounded her, seeming to think she came down just for them. “…you are not an utterly despicable master. And I accept your request—if we can call it that.”

  She bows. Hecate has always had perfect balance. She challenges his rule with her tongue, but shows easy subservience in equal spades.

  “Show me to my post, my king.”

  Forty-One

  While Hades is gone, there is plenty of time for Seph to utilize the remaining strength in his body and perhaps try to escape. That would be if he truly felt unsafe, and if he truly felt like Hades was trying to harm him. Despite what he remembers, all the stories in his head, he no longer feels like Hades is a danger to him or anyone.

  The story and the man he’s met don’t match.

  Seph doesn’t like Hades’s explanation. He doesn’t know why the world has to be so cruel. He wonders if maybe the people on the boats knew what was about to happen to them—if maybe they would choose to make the sacrifice anyway. They are dead, after all.

  Whether Hades is bad or good confuses him. But he does seem to care about Seph, and Seph spends the time when Hades is away lying in bed with his eyes closed. He pretended to be asleep just so the god could leave him and go wherever he said he needed to be (for Seph can’t remember).

  And when he comes back, after being gone forever it seems, Seph continues to lie with his eyes closed.

  This feels familiar.

  And as Seph hears the wine pitcher lifting, then liquid pouring into the cup, the sensation of this happening before only grows stronger…

  Am I not real after all? Is this a story I’m living?

  Seph opens his eyes and turns, reaching for Hades. He bumps the cup, making the liquid in the cup slosh a little. Hades’s swallow is interrupted as Seph hugs the dark god around his waist and holds tight.

  “I feel like there’s something in my brain. A creature like a leech. And I want to reach in, right inside my skull, and pull it out.”

  Seph grabs the top of his head where the feeling the strongest, right at his hairline.

  “Here,” Hades takes that hand and puts it on the cup stem instead.

  The name comes back to him. Goblet.

  Seph swirls the drink and tips his head back for it.

  “Oh, this helps,” he says wiping his mouth. Throughout his gut and stomach, the sweetness of the drink, all of these physical sensations overtake the mental tail-chasing in his thoughts.

  It also brings back a memory. Yet another story. He doesn’t want another one of those. But this one is not so bad. It feels right, like it’s happening exactly where it’s supposed to be. In the past. And it fee
ls like it happened to him rather than some guy named Seph who apparently talked and had thoughts without the current Seph’s input at all.

  This one was him. And he didn’t say much. He mostly just watched Hades eat and drink, dining from a large feast, leaning toward him on a couch.

  That was a good night. Even if I was little nervous.

  “More.”

  His request is fulfilled.

  “I’ve never seen you drink so quickly before.”

  “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “Nah. You can guzzle it from the pitcher if you like. Watch.”

  His forming smile disappears behind the clay pottery, and he gradually tilts the drink into his mouth.

  It’s a lot easier for Seph to do without spilling, having his smaller cup. For a while, this is all they do, Hades refilling his drink whenever it’s empty and then drinking straight from the pitcher itself. There is little talking, and no savoring at all of the hearty delicious drink. They down it like men in a hurry, and gradually, as the pitcher’s bottom becomes visible under the dark liquid, Seph finds himself with the desire to speak.

  It is little things at first. Questions he has that pester him as he’s sipping his drink that then find their way onto his tongue somehow.

  “Doesn’t Seph usually curl his hair?”

  “You are Seph. And let’s say… When I met you, you had done up your hair like any young Greek noble. But no, I believe you personally did not curl it. You, Seph, do not have the patience to hold still for sixteen breaths and let the soap set. I highly doubt you had the patience for applying and setting rollers.”

  “Sixteen breaths? Soap set?” Seph lifts a hand, waving, lightheaded, and drops it. “What does any of that mean?”

  “That you are looked after by your mother, and you’d have the stringy hair of a commoner if one of us more patient beings did not look after your grooming.”

  Seph dwells on the image of the woman, his mother, as he sips more of the drink. He can imagine her standing across from him, bangles on her wrists clattering and dangling as she props her hands on her hips.