For the Love of Hades (The Loves of Olympus)

by Sasha Summers

  His face was hard as granite, his jaw clenched fiercely. He would not look at her.

  “Come,” he bit out the word, startling her again. His gaze fixed on the hound at her side.

  She sat back, releasing the animal. The hound shifted from paw to paw, whimpering, but did not leave her. His brown eyes looked between the two of them nervously.

  “Go on,” she murmured, smoothing a hand over her dirtied skirts. Her hands, she noted, trembled. She stilled, resting her clenched hands on her knees. She must steady herself.

  Even his anger pleased her. He was here.

  “Did Hermes send you?” his words were soft.

  She could scarce contain the surprise on her face at his words. “No, no… No one sent me. Well, that’s not true. The grass, the trees…” She hesitated, choked once more from their pain. “The fire was large. As was the suffering, such suffering that all things green and growing called out to me.”

  “And you came?” His eyes flitted over her face, so quick she feared she imagined it. “Did your plants tell you the cause of the suffering?”

  She nodded, swallowing. “And that those responsible were gone…”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “Persephone.”

  She stood, knowing she was covered in the filth and grime of her labor. “I have a duty, like you, Hades. I know it’s trivial, perhaps, when compared with you or Hera… or my mother. But they, the plants, rarely ask anything of me. How could I deny them? I could not.”

  His gaze swept over her, lingering on her muddied skirts. When his eyes found hers, he winced. He drew himself up, stepping back, as if pained.

  “Does your mother know you are here?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. She was needed elsewhere. The Persians are nothing if not thorough in their travels.”

  He moved so quickly, she took a step back. His face was tight with fury. His tone was hard and bitter. “Go home, Persephone…”

  She stared at him, his words all but lost on her. He stood so close she could smell the heady musk scent of him. She leaned forward, letting her eyes feast upon him. His eyes were blood shot, rimmed with black shadows. “You are tired,” she said.

  A sigh, hiss-like and exasperated, slipped between his compressed lips. “Persephone…”

  “You should rest.” She was scarce aware that her hand rose, reaching for him. But his hand caught her wrist and his grip upon her was bruising.

  “Do not,” he rasped, holding her still. “You play at things you know nothing of. You come here, to heal what needs no healing. Death is a renewal for life, is it not? Yet you would venture out, alone and unprotected, for adventure? Have you so little respect for your lady mother? For Olympus? You are a Goddess, albeit unnecessary, whose fate impacts us all.”

  She wanted to recoil, but his grip only tightened. His words, hot and biting, fell upon her shoulders like blows.

  “If you are taken or injured, your carelessness would endanger all else. Demeter, and no doubt Zeus, would not let the matter rest. Those fighting this battle would suffer their indifference because of your selfishness.” His nostrils flared and his blue-black eyes bore into hers. “Because of you.”

  Persephone blinked back tears. His words rang true. She would never forgive herself if she endangered another…

  “Get you home, now.” He released her wrist roughly, causing her to tip unsteadily.

  She nodded, swallowing her tears. “I would never…” she paused, breathing deeply. “Forgive me…”

  His expression twisted, causing her heart to seize painfully. He was angry with her, yes. But he was disappointed too. And that knowledge settled coldly into the pit of her stomach.

  He turned, glancing over his shoulder. “Come, I will see you home.”

  She nodded, overcome with pitiful sobs. She could not stop. Had she chased any hope of his affection away? She sniffed, following behind him. Did he really think so lowly of her? Was she… was she unnecessary?

  To him, perhaps. She glanced at the contoured lines of his shoulders, bare and pale in the sun. She had no anger. His burned too bright, with too much conviction, to doubt that she was the one at fault. So she followed, weeping, until they reached the main road. She could bear it no longer.

  She lifted her robes and ran from him, for once eager to reach the walls of her isolated home.

  ###

  “Tired?” Aeacus smiled as he rushed forward, sword held high.

  Hades shook his head, kneeling to brace himself. His sword turned, deflecting Aeacus’ blow at the last. He stood, spinning and raising his sword to strike. The sword froze, its tip pricking the back of Aeacus’ neck.

  “Yield?” Hades asked.

  Aeacus looked back at the sword against his neck. “I have no need to continue. I am no match for you, as you’ve made clear this long and tiresome morning. But you seem no less agitated now than when we began.”

  Hades lowered his arm, shrugging.

  Aeacus relaxed his stance, rolling his head as he drew in a deep breath. “What ails you?”

  Hades looked at Aeacus with a lifted brow, his irritation clear.

  Aeacus laughed. “While I would never dare to call you pleasant, you’re not one to succumb to temper. Such fits are contagious, I fear…”

  Hades stared Aeacus. “You blame me for what happened?”

  Aeacus shook his head. “No, my lord.”

  “Explain your meaning.” His words were hard.

  Was Aeacus right? Had his mood presented an opening for these schemes?

  Aeacus spoke carefully, “You are distracted. That is no secret. And those in Tartarus would test that, test their chances at freedom.”

  “Tartarus’ borders are too strong. It was not an attempt at escape. They will find no freedom and they likely know it. They fought to squelch their boredom, the tiresomeness of their relentless existence.”

  Aeacus nodded. “So you were giving them a kindness? Engaging them in such a battle?”

  Hades rubbed a hand over his face, his ire threatening to overwhelm him once more. He’d been thrilled with the fight, engaging the faceless, nameless inhabitants of Tartarus with lethal efficiency. A battle with the dead could not end in death, but he and Didymos could force them back to the pit fires, where they would burn and suffer until freed. He’d delayed the sentence long enough to vent some of the frustration that had plagued him since his return home.

  Aeacus was right. His mood was foul. He had no patience. And there was nothing he could do… Nothing.

  Hermes joined them, his ever present smile upon his face. “I fear I’ve brought enough new souls to pass this day in work, Aeacus. The judges wait.” He clasped Aeacus’ forearm first, then did the same with Hades. “Sparring?”

  Aeacus nodded.

  “If you can call crossing swords with Aeacus sparring.” Hades attempted humor, but delivered an insult instead.

  “Your timing is well received, Hermes.” Aeacus bowed stiffly, saying, “I leave you, then.”

  Hades sighed, watching his friend and ally move towards the Judges Court.

  “Well done,” Hermes chided him. “You have so many friends, Hades, why worry over insults or wounded pride?”

  Hades scowled at him. “Aeacus is a Judge of the Dead. He serves me and the Underworld–”

  “And is friend to you,” Hermes interrupted.

  “Why are you here?” The words were harsh, but he cared little. Why did all seem bent on tempting the bounds of his control?

  Hermes laughed. “I, too, have duties to you and the Underworld.”

  Hades shook his head.

  “And I’m to invite you to a celebration.” Hermes was still smiling.

  “You push me to my wits’ end.”

  “That is why you should come.” Hermes clasped his shoulder. “Your temper threatens the peace and balance you pride yourself upon. Surely you see it?”

  Hades cast a wary gaze upon him. “Why would this celebration alter the state of things?”<
br />
  Hermes shrugged. “Come and see.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have responsibilities that extend beyond your understanding, Hermes, and I cannot shirk those duties for such frivolousness.”

  “Is the impending marriage of a king and a Goddess frivolous?” Hermes asked. “Demeter requested you come.”

  Hades felt a sudden weight upon his chest. “Whose marriage?”

  “You know,” Hermes said softly.

  Hades swallowed. “How will attending such festivities appease me?”

  “If she means naught to you, as you claim, this will cause you no discomfort. Indeed it might do you good to see her wedded and bedded. You can move on, free of her.”

  His breathing became challenged.

  “Demeter wanted to thank you for shielding Persephone from Poseidon. She has arranged offerings for you at the celebrations.”

  Hades wanted to hit something. Hermes was goading him, knowingly. He wanted to hit Hermes.

  “Or you may stay here, reject the offerings, and brood over the loss of one that was never yours to lose. Not because she would not have you, but because you would not have her,” Hermes finished, a taunting grin upon his face.

  Hades roared, his anger evident, “You have come to torment me, then?”

  “You’ve assured me you cannot be tormented.”

  Hades stared at him, fighting his fury.

  Hermes moved forward, picking up the sword Aeacus had left. “We could wager on it.”

  “No.”

  “If I defeat you, you will accompany me.”

  “No.”

  “If you win, I will never speak of Persephone to you again. Ever.”

  Hades’ eyes narrowed. “Ever?”

  Hermes lifted the sword, tossing the hilt back and forth in his hands. His face was expectant, enjoying himself immensely. “Ever. Though speaking of her should provide you no distress, considering your proclaimed indifference to her…”

  Hades swung the sword, bringing it down upon Hermes with all of his strength. Hermes sidestepped the blow, laughing.

  ###

  “He has children from his late wife,” Demeter spoke to Persephone in hushed tones, leading her down the passage that led the celebration. “He will be in no hurry to have another.”

  Persephone heard her mother’s words and felt nausea churn her stomach. Children? They were precious, to be sure. But she’d yet to experience any life of her own. The duties of a wife and mother would ensure nothing changed; life would go on as it always had for her.

  No, that was not true. She’d go from being the sheltered daughter of a Goddess to wife of a man she did not love and mother to a child she did not want.

  But perhaps that fate was better than to remain an unnecessary Goddess? She ignored the tug at her heart.

  “Don’t pout,” Demeter scolded. “Look around you, daughter. All this will be yours.”

  That King Erysichthon was wealthy, there was no doubt. Yards of the finest linen hung over the marble walls, elegantly carved wax tapers were lit in each of extravagantly carved sconces, and fresh boughs of herbs and flowers were tied together and hung to scent the air.

  “Why does he want to marry me?” Persephone asked.

  Her mother turned wide eyes upon her, smiling a tolerant smile. “You are a Goddess, Persephone. You are beautiful. Why would he not want to marry the daughter of his patron goddess? Of course he wants to marry you.”

  As they rounded the corner, Persephone was hard pressed not to gasp at the vision before her. She’d never seen so many people gathered together, all draped in such finery.

  Demeter turned to her daughter, arranging the mask upon her face with a critical eye.

  “Is this really necessary, mother?” Persephone asked. The porcelain of the mask smelled musky and felt constricting against her face.

  “He should not see you yet. Did we not discuss this before we left? We must determine if he is worthy of you, without your beauty acting as an enticement. It is a good mask.”

  It is a mask you wear to visit your lovers undetected. But Persephone said nothing, relieved that the mask was in place, for she knew her cheeks were red.

  “You should use whatever feminine wiles you see fit,” her mother continued.

  “Feminine wiles? I have none. You’ve seen to that.”

  Demeter waved her hand in front of her, dismissing her. “You are my daughter. Such affectations and devices will come most naturally to you, of that I have no fear.”

  And if I do not want to use such tactics? If I do not desire this match? Again, she knew better than to speak such words.

  Demeter smiled at her face. “You are not the only masked face here this night. We will not make this an easy conquest for our prince.” She straightened the mask, adding, “You have nothing to fear this night, daughter. Erysichthon is a gentle giant, one most faithful to me, and therefore, to you too.”

  Demeter left her side, preceding her into the courtyard so that Persephone might remain unknown.

  Persephone waited, resting her head against the wall as she drew in slow steadying breaths. How she wished this night was over. How she wished she was on the plains or meadows or in one of her trees.

  She slipped around the corner and hurried towards a heavily draped column, avoiding the curious eyes of those milling about her. She clutched the fabric, peering around it to assess the room’s company.

  Faces, some masked, some painted, others free from any disguise, filled the room. So many, too many… After a life of living out of doors, of seeing few people, she felt caged.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the whispered words of the grass, the deep tones of the trees, the sweet songs of the flowers.

  She opened her eyes, somewhat soothed. She stared around the room, finding the man that was surely Erysichthon. And once again, panic descended upon her.

  Men, the nymphs assured her, came in all shapes and sizes. Their appearance gave little insight into the spirit within. Persephone prayed this was true with Erysichthon. A gentle giant, her mother had said. The man was a giant. She would hold her mother accountable for the rest of her description as well.

  The man was large, broad and thickly muscled. He was dark, with black hair and a heavy shadow on his angled jaw. He sat, so his height was indeterminate, but she assumed he would tower, as his knees were hunched to allow him his seat.

  His face was well lined. A deep furrow marred his brow, presenting a daunting scowl. And yet the wealth of wrinkles layered at the corner of his eyes indicated he was equally fond of smiling. Even now, speaking to another, he was most animated.

  She sighed. It was a small comfort, to discern his state of mind from the expression on his face. Unlike… No, she would not think of Hades.

  She stared at Erysichthon. He was to be her husband. He was her mother’s choice. She turned, her back pressed against the column as she tried to steady her pulse.

  All about her people chattered, laughing loudly and without care. She watched them, mesmerized. The artful fluttering of one woman’s eyelashes, another’s leisurely lick of her painted red lips – the men were drawn like bees to honey, like a hummingbird to nectar. Her eyes narrowed, shaking off the urge to laugh at such behavior.

  But then, the men were no better. She shuddered as one aged fellow grabbed a woman around the waist, laughing when she squealed in protest. But the protest was farce, for the woman relaxed against the man with a smile full of promise. Another man had no qualms grabbing the breast of an almost bare-chested serving girl. The girl barely glanced at him, intent upon her work.

  She had no desire to learn such artifice or tricks.

  As her gaze swept the room, she found herself clinging to the column. She could not force herself to move, to let go and venture into the mayhem of this feast.

  She chided herself. The time had come to be more than a safely kept Goddess, playing with plants and nonsense. If her mother wanted this ma
rriage, she should do all she could to ensure the match. Her nerves were nonsense.

  A man, masked and alone, stood at the back of the hall, standing in the shadows. He was draped in grey, his cloak covering all of him. His grey mask scowled at the room with condemnation.

  She stared at the man, sharing his displeasure. She made a rash decision. If you move, I will move too.

  The man leaned against the wall and turned his head, ever so slowly, to inspect the room. When his eyes found her, he stiffened.

  He stared, surprising her. His body tightened as he straightened, and she feared he might leap upon her in his agitation. Instead he pushed away from the wall and swept from the room.

  She felt the air escaping from her lungs. Now she had to move.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a deep breath. She was scowling when she stepped around the column and walked directly into the chest of Erysichthon.

  She stared up, thankful for her mask for the first time.

  The man could not be mortal. Surely he’d descended from the Giants.

  “What a tiny flower you are.” He stared down at her, the crinkles about his rich brown eyes creasing deeply as he smiled.

  She was too startled to find a response. His smile, she supposed, was pleasant enough.

  “Can you speak, blossom?” he asked, making those about him laugh.

  She felt a flash of irritation. “Pardon my silence, my lord. I’ve rarely come upon a man with so… commanding a presence.”

  He laughed.

  She smiled, though none knew it behind her mask. He had a sense of humor. That, too, was pleasing.

  “You are careful with your words, a sign of superior intelligence.” He paused, waving those that followed him away. “Will you join me, mysterious maiden?”

  Persephone took the massive hand he offered, oddly relieved to lean upon him as he led her back to his chair. All eyes followed them as they made their way to his throne. He sat on a raised dais, the highest point in the room. This dais was arranged for comfort, covered with reclining benches, each laden with soft tapestries and thick cushions.

  She sat with care, propping herself upon the arm without leaning too closely to the giant at her side. It did not escape her that all within the hall were still watching them. It made her uncomfortable to be so examined. She’d no wish to be here, before them, on display.