Bonus Content - Artificial

Hey all!

This month's RO POV features Hades, and you wanted to see him just after the end of Chapter Seven, so here he is in all his angstiness, heh. 

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Hades pauses at the threshold, angling his body to see in through the half-ajar door.

As he’d already sensed, Hekate is within, no doubt monitoring her patient. One of a few, at this point in time, unfortunately; he’s just visited the unconscious Pyriphelgethon next door, and before that it had been checking in on where Alekto sits vigil at the bedsides of her sisters. His damnable father has made a mess of things, and yet as always he finds it difficult to lay blame entirely at the feet of Kronos.

He should know by now, after all. No matter how long things go this way, no matter how much time passes, or what he says or does, his father wishes only for the same thing he has always wished for. To be the King of the Gods. To achieve that aim, there simply isn’t anything he wouldn’t do, and while this was hardly a direct and obvious course of action for someone with that goal to take, he should have been more careful anyway.

At least for now, Kronos is confined to the Isles. That’s not a foolproof method of stopping him from doing anything, but hopefully it will take him some time to recover and lick his wounds. Metaphorically speaking. While Hades was tempted to impose at least some consequences for what he had done—well aware Zeus will likely choose to impose none—not even the man he hates most in all the world will drive him unthinkingly to violence. He refuses.

“You can come in, you know,” Hekate calls from within, her voice very clearly amused. “She’s not awake yet, but I’m not doing anything so important I need to be left alone for it.”

Taking the permission for what it is, Hades steps inside, pushing the door open with his free hand. The other clutches the ornate metal stems of… well, a bouquet of metal flowers, to be precise. He’d thought to bring some of the regular kind, in the hopes that perhaps that touch of the familiar, of her domain, would… he’s not even sure. ‘Hasten Persephone’s recovery’ seems a bit optimistic. But there had been some sense there, of the connection in his mind. Unfortunately, that is not a gesture he is capable of making, regardless of its intent, and so now he has metal flowers, pulled from the many precious stones buried deep at the foundations of the Underworld.

It seems so opposite as to be detrimental, and he remains unsure of the wisdom of this decision.

“How is she?” he asks softly.

Hekate, adding notes to the seemingly endless sheaf of parchment that is her compiled medical notes, shakes her head. “Nothing much different since the last time you asked,” she replies. Her eyes catch on the bundle in his hand, and her lips turn up a little at the corners, though she doesn’t directly address it. “She’s stable, but I have little concept of how long she’ll remain in this state. We could wake her, but given the circumstances I’d rather just let it happen naturally.”

“She’s getting adequate nutrition?” he asks, taking a couple more steps inside. As it turns out, there’s already a vase of fresh flowers inside; he’s not sure who brought them, but he has a half-decent guess. “I know a god can just sleep away an age if they so desire, but—”

“I’ve not forgotten, Hades,” Hekate replies patiently. “She is being sustained on my magic right now, though I will add that, given how much of yours she seems to be receiving on a given day, I’m just about redundant.”

“...I’m no healer,” he replies. What he can do might help, in some way. That’s why he’s doing it. But anything that would return the life to her, bring her more quickly to recovery… that’s beyond him.

The flowers are a soft pink color, others white. They’d have been gathered from both the mortal world and the Fields, in the specific combination they are. It’s not just anyone here who can go there.

“Hermes and Pyri,” Hekate supplies, following the direction of his gaze. “They’re fretting, as they do.”

He smiles, in spite of the discomfort knotting at the pit of his stomach. They are both so very kind, and he is proud to call them his friends.

Settling in the chair, he rests the metal flowers across his lap with a sigh. Hekate doubtless hears it; with a soft huff, she rests her hand atop his head, something she usually cannot do. “Don’t overthink it, Hades,” she says softly. “I know that’s like asking a fish not to swim, but if you can, just… let it be what it is.”

He’s not sure what ‘it’ she’s referring to, but even if he asks, she won’t explain further. He knows this, and she knows he knows it, and so when she drops her hand away, neither of them is surprised by her subsequent exit.

Hades, however, is a bit surprised by how… strange, this feels.

The guilt has been a constant companion the whole time, of course. And it sharpens now, because it couldn’t not. Persephone lies, slightly inclined, atop the mattress, blankets pulled to her chest and tucked carefully around her. He can see that her chest rises and falls steadily with her breathing, slow and even, and yet there is something fundamentally separating this state from sleep. It’s something he can feel with his magic rather than see with his eyes.

She’d been hurt. Because of him. Because he wasn’t strong enough to do what needed to be done by himself. And the worst part of it is… he knows he would have been. He knows that, if he had been willing to show her what he really was, striking Alcyoneus down would have been trivially easy. And so this result, her pain and suffering, isn’t merely his fault because the situation was a challenge he could not rise to.

Instead it’s his fault because he was afraid she would hate him.

The bitter taste of bile rises in the back of his throat, needles of pain spiking along his jaw, and he clenches his teeth, suppressing a wave of nausea and self-loathing. Or at least, tolerating it until it passes. Hekate would say he’s wallowing, but Charon would understand. When there is no one else in the world capable of punishing him for his transgressions… someone still must.

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “I will never—I will never allow anything like this to happen again.”

Even that presumes too much. Presumes she’ll want anything to do with him, if ever she learns the truth. And she will. He has to tell her. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. To leave the worst parts of him undisclosed to her. His weakness. His fear.

But he will do it later. When she is recovered. When there are no longer hundreds of things demanding their attention at any given moment. It would be cruel just to add one more to the pile, atop everything else he has to say, and do, and all of it.

When he leaves, the metal flowers go with him. What need has she, for such poor imitations, when others can touch the real ones, and bring them to her?