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Kurapika knew who he was. He always did.
He was of those who stood with pride as the children of Kórê, feared and revered, doomed and sanctified. One of those born from her in Lukso's fields, their motherland. Pairo and him, Brîska and the elders, they were all her children and would still be, decades after decades, centuries after centuries, blessed with vermillion eyes as red as the cursed fruit of the deads.
‘Kórê’ was the Queen of the Deads, wife and ruler of Hades, and even fools honored her. Hera did, Zeus did, and not a single soul in the world would risk tasting her fury. Only winter could ease their worry, for she was locked in the deeps of Tartarus, away from them, away from love. And while Gods feasted with all their glory, drunk with the relief that she would not attend, she weeped, yelled and screamed, blamed her husband and tore her hands against the golden cage until blood and tears flew, as revenge claimed her, slowly, completely.
Kurapika heard thousand stories about her; about his mother, their mother. Each day Brîska sat down on an earth ground as old as her and surrounded by children she would begin her tale, about the majestic queen of the shades, the beautiful maiden of growth, the Heavenly mother.
And Kurapika would listen, listen and drink her words like a blessing to his soul, more than any of his brothers and sisters, more than anyone. He always asked, begged for more, and soon tales weren't enough; he wanted, craved her presence, right here, right now, by his side and nowhere else.
But nobody loved clever, prying people, did they?
So when Kurapika borrowed books older than time itself, nobody prevented him. But with each day he was lonelier, and with each morning sun, rumors rose with it, about him and his, oh so delusional, quest for the outside world. Women wept, prayed for his damned soul, because their mother was the ruler of Spring and Death and Kurapika knew he would fall one day, the way she did, the way he was destined to, because knowledge was a weapon, and since the moment he was born he was taught ignorance would be their home and gravestone, that if children disappeared at night while monster lurked in the wood, he was to close his eyes and pray for them but never wonder why, never seek war against those who slayed his brothers and sisters, and thus weapons were useless, knowledge was as well, and cursed were those who seeked for it.
Kurapika didn't deny it. Wouldn't.
To him, curses were blessings in disguise.
She visited. His mother, Kórê, she visited.
She came to him one night, dressed in pure, translucent white, with ruins in her soul and a voice blessed with war cries. Persephone, like few dared to call her, tied her hand with his, kissed his skin just as dark as hers and claimed in all dishonesty he was the only child she ever dwelt with after their birth. She could lie, he thought. She certainly was.
She filled his mind with fantasies, glorious purposes demigods were burdened with. For hours she spoke of distant lands, of thousands children who, like him, were born from holy beings, of noble quests he too, could overcome. She promised him she would recognize him as her son, as her champion, if only he could pass the elders’ test. And he believed her.
It was as simple as that.
If he was to fail, he would stay in the village and never leave, until Death would take Kurapika with ‘him’ to the realm where they all belonged, to the underworld they all desired. If he prevailed, all the glory, all the fame, each bit of freedom she thrilled him with, would be his. And the higher he would aim, the farther he would fall.
But Kurapika was young, he had all his life to fall. For now, all he wanted was to fly higher.
Higher.
Years after, he thought the curse had faded. He was happy and loved. He was fourteen and flowers were his crown, love was his home. He was happy and for once, his people were too.
He was fourteen, and today was his day of triumph.
He passed the test and he was now known as the Son of Kórê. Hermes spread the news like wildfire, and before dawn the Gods knew, monsters knew, but most importantly, Hades knew.
It most certainly did not please him, and Kurapika took pride in it.
His mother certainly did as well.
He was fourteen and once morning rose he would depart, head for lands where demigods belonged, leave his home and never return, leave love and never long for it anymore.
So when he kissed a boy like skies were to fall on their head, nobody stopped him; they all cheered, they all laughed, Pairo's hands were warmer than the bonfire and if alcohol ran in their veins, Kurapika assumed it could only be a blessing. If someone saw them in the woods, painting their bodies like those who found true love, no one mentioned it. If someone saw them laugh and weep, bruise and mark their skin, no one spoke of it. If someone saw him lying asleep in the grass, his smile a laurel crown and delight at the tips of his fingers, no one scolded him.
Even if they had tried, they couldn't have.
Because Kurapika was fourteen, he was fourteen and he woke with smoke choking his lungs, tearing his eyes and Hades' ardent, fiery gift in front of him, eyeless heads and murdered bodies.
He was fourteen and blood flew as a river at his feet, burns as jewels on his skin.
He fell.
Hard.