For the Love of Hades (The Loves of Olympus)

by Sasha Summers

She’d endangered Erysichthon’s men.

  She sat back. Could she reach Erysichthon? Could she warn him? If she tried, would the Persians see her? What would they do to her? Hades’ warnings filled her ears.

  She would never reach Erysichthon in time.

  The hound shifted from paw to paw. His ears pricked up and his eyes turned towards the Persians.

  She took the hound’s head, turning him to look at her. “Go,” she whispered. “I need his help. Please go.”

  The hound whimpered once then ran, a black flash too fast for her to follow.

  Chapter Nine

  It took only moments for Erysichthon to arrive. Perhaps he’d anticipated a battle after all? While he was outnumbered, he was accompanied by a large troop of soldiers. Erysichthon himself was a daunting sight. Persephone could see the determination on his face, the narrowing of his eyes and the twist of his mouth as he spotted the Persians. But he did not pause. Instead, he smiled, raising his spear with blatant enthusiasm.

  Persephone gasped. The Persians were too many. Surely Erysichthon could see that?

  “Do not act rashly,” Persephone pled. He could not hear her, she knew, but the words slipped out anyway. She leaned forward, causing the ground beneath her to shift. The rocks slid and sent her toppling down the hillside and onto the ground before Erysichthon and his men. She landed sharply, the air knocked from her lungs. She pushed herself up, wincing as the rocks bit into her knees and palms.

  She saw Erysichthon then, saw the confusion on his face.

  In Persephone’s life, she’d had little to fear. Her mother was always close at hand, had seen to it that someone else would protect her daughter in her stead. She’d never faced anger or danger, not really. Until now.

  And the look of understanding upon the king’s face stole her breath and stilled her heart. “You.” The word was harsh. “You’ve led me to them, blossom. To challenge me? Would you have me prove myself worthy of you?”

  She shook her head, terrified. She stood, edging toward the trees. “Never, my lord. Run from this place, I beg of you.”

  Erysichthon laughed, snapping his chariot’s reigns and plowing forward.

  The men erupted then, Persians and Greeks alike, running at each other with angry cries and swinging swords. Several dorus flew, the nine-foot long spears skewering the Persians with clean skill.

  She turned away, horrified by the sight. But she saw Erysichthon then as his chariot bore down upon her. Erysichthon came for her now, when his men needed his leadership?

  She ran for the trees, but slipped and fell again. She gasped, knowing he came, and crawled awkwardly to the trees. When his huge hand caught her foot, she screamed, startled. He pulled her back. The tender flesh of her stomach was cut and bruised, and still he dragged her across the battlefield.

  She reached frantically, pulling at the tree roots, the grass, the thorny vines beneath her, begging for help. They could do nothing, she knew. She turned, twisting her body.

  Erysichthon’s hold did not ease as he skewered a running Persian with his dagger. Once the man fell, he pulled her along. Screams and grunts, the clash of metal, the break in the air as a spear flew true; these sounds surrounded her.

  She was trapped, truly trapped now.

  How had this happened? She’d left Erysichthon because she feared him, but surrounded by such horror, her fear seemed foolish.

  Another Persian attacked, swinging his serrated blade at Erysichthon. Erysichthon did not release her foot. With one hand, he pierced the foe with his spear, pulling it free as the man went limp. The body fell by her, the man’s blood pouring onto the sand at her side. She shuddered, unable to stop her tears.

  Erysichthon moved on, pulling her towards his chariot without a backward glance.

  He was forced to stop again, cleaving the head from this new attacker without hesitation. Persephone screamed as the Persian’s body fell, barely missing her. The sand beneath her grew sticky with blood, and still Erysichthon held her.

  When he was next set upon he had no choice but to release her. Three men, armed and wary, smiled expectantly. Their smiles chilled her. Erysichthon smiled in return. His arms rippled, flexing and tightening as he blocked and jabbed.

  She tried to stand, but the sand was slick, causing her to slip back to her knees in the muck. She drew in breath, sobbing uncontrollably as she fell forward, her hands seeking purchase in the sand.

  A man’s voice, biting and hard, brushed her ear. A hand gripped her hair, pulling her head back and forcing her upright, onto her knees. It was sudden. So sudden she felt the jerk of her body before she felt the pain. She was shoved forward by some unseen force, her head pinioned back. Pain, swift and sharp, skewered her stomach, spreading with excruciating speed.

  The hand released her hair, freeing her to stare down, in shock. A blade protruded from her abdomen, its serrated edges split her from back to front.

  The man said something again, but she could not think or feel anything but the pain. She felt his foot against her hip, bracing himself as he pulled the blade free. The blade tore, rending her flesh wider as it went.

  She screamed. Bright red blood, her blood, spilled onto the sand, taking her warmth with it. Agony wracked her frame, and coldness… a coldness that chilled her very bones. She shivered, forcing the wound to contract and pull. She cried out again. The wound seemed a living, throbbing thing, intent on her suffering. She clutched at her stomach, pressing against the hole with trembling hands. The pressure from her own hand was too much. She fell to her side, staring blindly as sheer agony pulsed with her every heartbeat.

  All about her the ground was red. So much blood – hers, Erysichthon’s men and the enemies they fought.

  And still the fighting continued. Her ears echoed with the sounds of it, grunts, groans, metal, and death.

  She closed her eyes, searching for strength. She must rise, she must flee.

  ###

  Hades heard her scream, and felt the pain in it. He saw her, saw her fall forward. When the Persian tore his sword free of her, Hades’ fury knew no bounds.

  He whipped his horses, threatening them. He did not slow, but rode his chariot through the melee. Whether Persian or Thessalian that fell beneath the hooves of his horses as he went, he cared not. He would not slow.

  When he was close enough to reach her, he leapt from the chariot and knelt at her side. “Persephone?” he murmured, reaching for her.

  A blade grazed his shoulder, but he did not turn. His hounds were on the man in an instant, freeing Hades to concentrate on Persephone.

  She lay so still. He could scarce control the terror that threatened to weaken him. He lifted her, ignoring all else about them. “Persephone?”

  Her head lolled back against his arm, her eyes blinking weakly. She looked at him with dilated eyes. Confusion lined her blood-smeared face. Her voice was frail, yet she smiled as she asked, “Hades? I am in your realm, then? And you’ve come to welcome me… How nice.”

  Her humor rallied him, yet her pathetic attempt at a smile filled him with anguish. He pulled her close. “You cannot die, Persephone.”

  Her eyes widened then, staring about her in horror. She shivered, turning her face into his chest as she whispered, “You will keep me safe.”

  He felt her breath upon his skin, unsteady and weak. He would keep her safe. “Yes.”

  “She is mine,” Erysichthon screamed at him, mindlessly battling the men before him. “Leave her to me.”

  Hades did not look at the king as he climbed into his chariot.

  “She is mine,” Erysichthon insisted. “If you take her, there will be no safe place to hide from me.”

  Hades cradled Persephone, holding her gently as his eyes sought safe passage. All about them were men, caught in the grip of battle. He saw no easy route to her home, a long and arduous journey.

  Erysichthon killed another, but his gaze remained upon Hades and Persephone.

  He saw the blood drunk mortal moving toward
s his chariot, gripping his dripping sword. If not for Persephone, he’d welcome the mortal’s advance. Greek or no, he would feel no remorse ripping the king apart. He looked forward to such a battle, once she was safe.

  A Persian stopped the king, swinging a red blade and cleaving the king’s shoulder armor.

  Hades turned, scouring the plains. There was no clear path to freedom, except the way he’d come. Could he risk taking her there? He looked down at her, pale and limp in his arms. He had one choice. He flicked the reins, turning his team towards the Underworld.

  “I will find you,” Erysichthon’s roar echoed above the fighting, but Hades did not turn. “And you will suffer!”

  “Run,” Hades hissed, urging his chargers faster.

  He pressed her closer to him, supporting her as best he could. She still bled heavily, her tunic wet and sticky. She was immortal, yes, but such wounds could be too. If she was not healed, she would suffer its pain forever. Or never wake from its effect, but live on in eternal sleep. Such a fate was worse than death. He spoke to her, repeating soft assurances over and over as they went.

  The journey was interminable. With each step, she seemed to fade within his arms. He grew frantic, tearing across the plains of Thessaly, the hills of Larissa and stilling the River of Acheron to ride atop its black waters with ease.

  The sight of his mountainous fortress eased him greatly, but he did not pause until he’d carried her inside the safety of his home. Only when he gently laid her upon his bed, when he was free to inspect the grey cast to her skin and the unsteady rise of her chest, did fear defeat him. He knelt, taking her hand in his. “Be brave, Persephone. You must be brave.”

  She lay so still, too still.

  “My lord?” Aeacus was here.

  He turned, not bothering to hide his anguish. “Send Theron to find Hermes. Have him bring ambrosia and nectar.”

  Aeacus nodded. “Shall I send someone to assis–”

  “Only Hermes.” He turned back to Persephone. “Hurry!”

  He did not hear Aeacus go.

  He removed her cloak, slitting her peplos up the front and spreading it wide. The wound was angry, gaping wide and seeping blood. Her face was covered in a sheen of sweat. He covered her with clean linen, leaving only the wound exposed.

  She stretched, then groaned when the wound gaped and pulled. He winced at the bright red blood running from the jagged hole.

  “Hades?” she whispered.

  He leaned over her, careful of jostling the bed with his weight. “I am here.” He took a deep breath as she turned her head to stare at him.

  She looked dazed, disoriented. “Here?”

  “My home.”

  “Oh…” She stared at the fire. Her eyes closed, pinched tightly as her hands flew to her waist. She clasped her wound suddenly, her face twisting. “I fear… I fear I may retch…”

  He reached for her, helping her lie on her side. “Your wound is deep. Jarring it will worsen the damage.”

  She stared at him with glassy eyes, her body shaking. “Those men… those men…”

  He could not stop himself from taking her hand in his. He wished he had some words of comfort for her. But his throat was tight and his chest heavy. He had no experience with such words, or emotions. But he sought to soothe her, to reassure her. His voice was hoarse as he offered, “You are safe now.”

  She smiled slightly, even as she was racked with shudders. Her stomach convulsed, forcing a moan from her parted lips.

  He turned her, supporting her chest with his arm. She shook so violently. Then, suddenly, her body tightened as she retched on the floor. Her hands grasped the angry wound in her side and he ached from her suffering.

  “Do not fight it,” he murmured into her ear.

  She tightened, heaving again, as she cried. He could hold her no tighter, for fear of injuring her. But neither could he lessen his hold upon her, for she was too weak to hold herself upright. She went limp against him, gasping.

  “Persephone?” He cradled her, gently turning to place her upon the bed.

  Her face was grey, her lips white. Her chest rose and fell slowly. But her eyes were focused intently upon him. They blazed, round pools of luminescent green, in her exhausted face. He glanced at her stomach. The wound oozed, further torn by her sickness. His arm and thigh were smeared with her blood.

  Her eyes fluttered, and the shadow of a smile found her. “I am fine.”

  “You are brave.” He could not help but smile. “And more fierce than Athena.”

  She shook her head once.

  “You are.” His voice was hard, defiant.

  She closed her eyes, the smile fading as she relaxed. He sat, watching the rise and fall of her chest, appeasing his worry… and anger. She dozed, stirring restlessly, unable to find comfort. When she seemed more peaceful, he stood, restless.

  He dropped a thick cloak over the sickness on the floor and moved to build up the blue-white fire. Only when the air was smoldering did he drag a chair beside the bed. He poured a goblet of water and returned to her. He held the water to her mouth, tipping the cup slightly. Her eyes were closed, but he whispered in her ear, “Drink, Persephone, and heal.”

  She turned from the cup, moaning.

  He sat beside her on the bed. “Shh,” he whispered, hesitantly resting his hand upon her shoulder. She sighed, shuddering heavily, and turned her face into his arm. Her hand came up, loosely anchoring his arm in place. Her touch soothed him as nothing else. If only he might do the same for her. He watched her, exploring her features in the flickering firelight.

  She was beauty.

  Her brow smoothed, her lips relaxed, her breathing grew deep and even. Her hair seemed to dance in the firelight, casting an ethereal glow about her. She smiled slightly, her lids fluttering in dreams. Sleep, peace, had finally found her.

  He drew in a steadying breath, his nostrils filled with her scent. Panic found him anew, and he closed his eyes to fight it. He had never known such fear, never. His hand tightened upon her shoulder as he bent forward to rest his forehead atop hers. He would never feel such suffering again, nor wish it on his deepest enemy…

  “Hades?” Hermes stood inside his chamber, staring at them with wide eyes. “What happened?”

  “I’ve never been so pleased to have you here,” Hades spoke softly, too relieved by Hermes’ arrival to safeguard his heart. He stood carefully, slipping his arm from her hold and pulling the furs over her. “She was caught on a battlefield, between Persians and Greeks. She was wounded, gravely so. She needs…”

  Hermes handed Hades a large cask of nectar and a basket full of ambrosia. “I have it.”

  Hades nodded. “My thanks.”

  “She is an Olympian, Hades. And friend to me. Persephone has my protection as well as yours.” Hermes’ face hardened with anger. “I would see those that did this suffer.”

  Erysichthon’s face rose before him, hard and… crazed. He’d been drunk with bloodlust, more so than any mortal Hades had ever witnessed. “As would I,” he agreed.

  “Did they? Were they punished? Was justice delivered?” Hermes rarely spoke with such heat.

  Hades gazed at Persephone then, explaining. “There was no time for vengeance. She was…” He paused, swallowing back the emotion that choked him. “She was too frail.” Hades shook his head, rubbing a hand across his face.

  “No… It was wise, to shelter her… But I would go with you when you seek vengeance, when she is well once more.”

  Hades nodded, worry rising within him once more. He would see her laughing again. Feast upon the sounds of her teasing voice and the sparkle in her green eyes. But she did not stir. Her long lashes rested on pale cheeks. He sighed, feeling useless once more.

  “Did Erysichthon not protect her?”

  Hades shook his head. “He wanted me to leave her…”

  She moaned, her brow furrowing as her hands hovered over her wound.

  Hades poured a glass of nectar and knelt beside her,
lifting the cup to her lips. “You must drink, Persephone.”

  She did not stir.

  Hermes cleared his throat. “She will heal. She is strong, Hades.”

  Hades nodded, but his gaze was fixed upon her. He spoke softly, cautioning himself, “Take word to her mother. Assure her that, once Persephone is well enough, I will see her safely home.”

  “What else do you need of me?” Hermes asked, his face pained.

  Hades could not think. Was there anything else? She had the food and drink of the immortals. Time would heal her, if she could be healed. There was nothing else to be done. He shook his head, saying, “I thank you.”

  Hermes’ face was somber as he regarded Hades, but he nodded. “Shall I send Aeacus to you?”

  “No. Tell him I am not to be disturbed. He and the judges will earn their keep.”

  “Surely there are women who might tend to her?” Hermes asked softly.

  Hades glanced at Persephone, her pale skin… how still she was. He nodded. “Ask him to send a woman, a servant, one with some knowledge of healing. Aeacus will know who.”

  Hermes nodded. “You have done all you can.”

  “She will be well.” His voice was hard. “I will see to it.”

  “Let the woman tend her, Hades. And rest easy.”

  Hades glared at Hermes. He would not leave her, not yet. How could he? Did Hermes not see her? Did he not see how fragile she was? How could he suggest such a thing? He bit back his tirade, though his tone revealed him. “In time, Hermes.”

  Hermes’ tawny eyes assessed Hades too carefully. Hermes would draw his own conclusions, but Hades had no desire to hear them. Instead he held his arm out, waiting for Hermes to clasp it.

  “You’ve only to send Theron, if you or Persephone have need of me,” Hermes offered in parting.

  She sighed, drawing Hades’ attention back to her. The muscles of her face moved easily in sleep. He resumed his seat by the fire, his eyes never leaving her.

  The servant woman arrived soon after, cleaning the floor and removing Persephone’s bloodied garments. She warmed a pan of water over the fire to clean Persephone’s wounds, but when she reached for the pan, Hades stopped her.