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Hades isn’t one for war. He’s at best indifferent towards it, but he finds as the decades and centuries churn into new ages, he grows weary of human suffering. The ceaselessness of it.
True, he’s never been one of the gods to take interest in war before, nor destruction or cruelty, even the basest of pleasures are few and far between. In this time, many of his brethren have as well calmed, not quite so habitual in the toying of mortal life- not to say that they have become any less cruel or self-serving, as is the way of their family and always has been. Hades doubts they can ever be truly kind, but that’s him. His first memories of his very long existence are, after all, being thrown down his father’s gullet. It’s a disgusting thing he despises to think about, as do many of his siblings, and as such an obvious weakness Zeus gloats over. The idiot thinks that just because their mother had finally had enough and spared her youngest son the pain and humiliation, suddenly he is stronger and better for it. It’s not as though Zeus is responsible for the fact he doesn’t get devoured, and personally, Hades likes to think that his youngest brother is rather full of himself.
Truthfully, despite that Hades would never admit it out loud, Zeus is the best candidate for being King, in that time afterwards, or at least, that is what he and his siblings think. Hestia is far too closed off, having spent so long alone in nothingness that she sometimes forgets she is real and to be fair, so does Hades; Demeter is so obsessed with control, she can’t be trusted to think rationally; Hera swings wildly from wrathful to depressed, and Poseidon is similarly prone to bouts of unpredictable destruction. That doesn’t mean, however, that Hades is particularly happy with Zeus. But Hades hasn’t felt much fondness towards his youngest brother in a long time.
It’s only the residual fraternal sentiment, or in honor of a dead one, that has him on Olympus now despite the fact that it’s early on the Winter Solstice. Well that, and that his Bright haired nephew had backed up his father, solemn in ways Hades doubts bodes well for any of them.
The second world war had been difficult so far, mentally. Again, Hades isn’t one to rejoice in war. He is the Ruler of the Underworld, and war produces many a dead soul for him to watch over. The paperwork is tedious and tiresome. Even his lovely Dread Queen, who has affinity for rot and decay, grows weary already, and he hates to see her despondent.
Zeus had better have a good reason for calling him here early.
With a thought, he manifests across the throne room, near invisible. It’s a full Council, not exactly unusual for a solstice, but tense regardless. Even Dio seems lucid at the moment, a glass of rich wine held loosely between his fingers but untouched. Athena, of course, twitches cool gray eyes at Hades’ arrival, as do Hera and Poseidon. Zeus doesn’t acknowledge his presence, as per usual, but Zeus doesn’t acknowledge any of the other gods’ presence, as that is beneath him. By the hearth, Hades notes Hestia tending the flames, steadfast. It brings little comfort to the frigid throne room.
Phoebus, for his part, is fixated utterly on the young girl kneeling in the center, a few too many steps away from Zeus’ throne, and too close to Apollo’s, than what is probably to the King’s liking, but it sends something like amusement through Hades’ constructed body. What is this Oracle’s name again? Her hair falls around her shoulders, face like stone. A Greek veil falls across her head, partially obscuring her dark eyes, but it does little to dim the misty green spiraling from out of them, a barely restrained spirit clawing out of her, begging to be heard as the likes of Kassandra screaming an unbelievable truth. Hades is definitely glad that his nephew has calmed in the past few centuries.
“I shall not have my time wasted,” Zeus says, each syllable of his words underlined by the rumble of thunder, “why have you brought your Oracle, boy?”
Phoebus remains unblinking, eyes consumed by gold from pupil to sclera, but he tilts his head, “Rise, my Pythia,” he speaks, “Speak what you’ve seen.”
Remarkably, the girl- Edita, Hades recalls at last, gets to her feet without wavering. Her mouth drops open as soon as she is standing, a cavern too wide to be natural on a mortal, jaw stiffened, and saliva wetting the corners of her lips, and then green smoke is curving into the air with a harsh hissing sound.
A half-blood of the eldest gods
Shall reach sixteen against all odds
And see the world in endless sleep
The Hero’s soul cursed blade shall reap
A single choice shall end his days
Olympus to preserve or raze.
The smoke dissipates, and then the Oracle is collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, limbs broken and sprawled on the ground. Her chest heaves as she catches her breath, small palms bracing against the cold floor, as Olympus becomes silent.
Impossible, Hades wants to snap, a godling with that much power? But demigods, particularly the ones of Ancient stock, Greek, hailing from the likes of Theseus and Heracles and Achilles, have been made for things beyond both the mortal and the god. Weaknesses of both, but abilities that neither have, too. And while they have always been made to serve the divinity in their blood, Hades suddenly wonders if it isn’t that divinity that will have them seek more, seek enough to land themselves with a prophecy of destruction or salvation. It is, after all, how their family works: father kills son kills father kills son, kills father.
“You, my son,” Zeus speaks silkily, fury tamped down in a way that has lightning dancing down into the war torn country, “have brought our ruination.”
Phoebus’s teeth gleam white, “I have brought nothing, fate is inescapable.”
“Silence.”
The golden god’s head turns sharply like he’s been backhanded, but Apollo remains so expressionless, it’s impossible to tell if that’s truly the case or if he simply dismissed his attention from his father in favor of checking on his Pythia.
“I will not have us threatened so blatantly in the seat of our power,” Zeus says after a minute, cold, eyes on the Oracle, “leave, girl, or you will pay for your words with your life.”
To Hades’ delight, the girl looks at Apollo first in askance before bowing her head shortly and leaving, brisk, from the room. The door echoes in a slam behind her, and it’s only when it is quiet again that Athena speaks, the back of her hand stroking her owl’s downy gray plumage. Its eyes swivel.
“If I may advise, father, it is still unwise to simply ignore a prophecy.”
“And so it shall be dealt with,” Zeus commands, “we will cut contact with the demigods and my brothers and I shall have children no longer-”
Hera’s brows twitch, and Hades can’t tell if it’s a pleased expression that crosses her face or one of disgust.
“That,” the King of the gods lifts his hands, “is my decree.”
“Oh?” Hera cuts in, cold voice almost cloying, “and how will you ensure that, husband? As I recall, you have reneged on your promises before.”
If that wasn’t an understatement, Hades doesn’t know what is.
“You come dangerously close to accusing me of treason, woman, tread carefully.”
Artemis tilts forward ever so slightly, “but it is the principle of the matter, lord father, don’t you agree? For the prophecy to be derailed, there must be more than meaningless promises.”
Ares scoffs at her derisively, fire filled eyes manic ever since the war had kicked off, “oh please, isn’t that what your little club is based on?”
Artemis’ lip curls away from her teeth, slow and wolfish, and Phoebus’ hands twitch irritably at the slight. Athena works in smoothly, “a binding pledge is different from a promise, brother,” she patronizes, mouth twitching up haughtily at each corner.
“So a pledge then,” Aphrodite suggests before Ares can try and bite his sister’s head off, and her smile is syrupy sweet and mean as she locks eyes with Zeus, “and oath. I’m sure the Styx will suffice.”
As though the name alone is enough to invoke the Being’s attention, and Hades knows very well that it is, the room seems to darken, become heavy and thick enough to choke even the divine. It presses at him, and he glances over toward Poseidon, who has been terribly quiet the entire meeting. His younger brother’s eyes are the cold watery depths of the world river, unusual to see on his face as he typically favors brighter malachite shades. Hades isn’t sure whether this change is due to an understanding he is reaching with his oath-binding cousin, the way the shades of his gaze move slowly like some creature lazily drifting underneath the surface, or if it is simply grief.
Despite Poseidon’s mercurial moods and tendency for unpredictability, he can also be overly sentimental when the occasion calls for it, and Hades knows that thus far the century has not been kind to his brother. The small scale genocide at the Roman Camp of anyone even closely resembling a relation to the likes ot Neptune, unpunished only by Jupiter’s command. The gloating also has not helped. Not to mention, that Poseidon’s five year old daughter was killed last year in one of those German camps, the reason Hades had his own children and lover moved to the United States from Italy so urgently.
Hades can only be thankful that Australia hasn’t found itself completely underwater yet. Pragmatically, he doesn’t need the paperwork, especially not on top of this mess with the war.
On the other hand, he doesn’t know if he prefers the idea of his brother speaking to Styx. Despite Zeus and many of the other gods seemingly impetuousness to such a swear on the account of their eternal nature, Hades is familiar with the River, as it flows through his realm, polluted with dying wishes and regrets and dreams, gleaming with the oily slick trap of promises no one is actually able to keep, hatred and violence and teeming with souls reaching for the power of invincibility.
The Styx, Hades thinks, is not a good idea. Let Olympus preserve or raze, prophecies tend to come about either way. Hades is more worried about Zeus’ wording, that there shall be no more children. He carefully does not think about his own.
“That is a very dangerous oath,” Hades voices slowly, sliding his eyes to catch Phoebus’ own, “an effort in futility, too, I assume.”
Phoebus presses his lips and says nothing, likely having uselessly argued this point many times before.
“Your assumptions mean nothing,” Zeus says, “as my son has many times informed us, prophecies are indecipherable, and so they can be made to our benefit.”
Artemis rolls her eyes blatantly, but Zeus is too busy glaring at Hades to pay her attention, “I only hear from you, reasons to allow this threat to continue. Are you, perhaps, in favor of it?”
Now Hades has the urge to follow his niece’s lead, “truly you are exhausting to listen to, Zeus,” he scoffs, “your paranoia gets the best of you.”
Zeus’ eyes flare in rage, but then Poseidon is materializing off his throne in a burst of seafoam. He looks a bit more monstrous now, than he had earlier, a little less pretense of a mortal body or mind, “I will swear,” he says the word in lilting mockery, “after my youngest brother, if he so chooses to keep to his word. And you, Hades?”
Hades wants to smack him, but he should have expected this. After all, this war is carried on the backs of their own children. Hades’ oldest mortal son, technically though he likes to think he’s disowned the boy, is responsible by proxy for Poseidon’s daughter’s death.
“Fine,” he grits, landing glittering dark eyes onto Zeus, “then after you.”
Zeus isn’t happy, it is obvious on his face, the way his eyes strike with bright lightning, his brows draw flat, his head tilts a bit. Even Demeter smirks slightly, for once more focused on family drama than her new terrible obsession with cereals.
He doesn’t break his stare, however, as he decrees the words, “I swear on the River Styx, not to sire another mortal child.”
The throne room rumbles with it, crashing waves and hurricanes as Poseidon tilts his head and says, “so I too swear,” and Hades sighs and mutters, “I swear.”
“Well problem solved then,” Aphrodite titters behind a perfectly manicured hand. Today she looks like a mix between the lovely Persephone and Maria di Angelo, though doesn’t quite measure up to either of them, “I have an appointment in Paris. Ta!”
She disappears in a rush of floral perfume and dove feathers, but Hades catches the way her eyes linger on him carefully, amusement shining clearly through the curve of her red lips. He doesn’t trust it at all.
One by one, the other Olympians take their leave. Hermes is gone with little fanfare, busy as always, Artemis and Apollo taking their leave together. Athena spares her father and uncles a stiff, significant sweep of her eyes before zipping down below to observe some mortal project or another. Hephaestus disappears with a single last distasteful look at his family, something Hades empathizes with greatly, and eventually it is only the three brothers remaining.
Zeus remains seated in his throne, humming with power, while Poseidon stays with a shoulder braced against one of the marble columns, closest to where Hades stands to the side. It is always grating, lacking a throne, but he doesn’t show that on his face, allowing the shadows to drip from him, gather and cloud the ground and shroud him in his own sort of armor.
“None of our children can be allowed to reach sixteen,” Zeus tells them. Of course. Hades hates that he tricks himself into thinking his living demigods are safe, hates that if he had a mortal heart, it would have jumped to his throat.
“I believe that’s more your problem, brother,” Poseidon arches a brow, smiling faintly in a way that is too cold to be familial.
“None of mine were weak enough to be killed by mere mortals,” Zeus counters. A storm shudders down below, the lightning smothering out as the Stormbringer snatches away Zeus’ theatrics for the purposes of his own rage, “do not speak of her.”
Zeus’ brows lift, “or what? What will you do to your King?”
Poseidon’s smile curls even sharper, razor teeth, “don’t forget, I have ruled once too.”
It’s an Ancient voice that ripples with things best left laying. Old, older things…Hades allows his arm to reach, press Poseidon’s shoulder back, perhaps to stop the other from leveling the room, perhaps to stop him from leveling the world. His form is intangible and whispering and cloaks the air in a heavy mist, “enough, both of you.”
Zeus straightens, visibly brushes away the discomfort, and settles into a warning glare, “one week. You as well, Hades. Don’t think I do not know of your own spawn.”
Then he disappears in a flash, and Hades is left staring at his mildly less annoying but equally tiresome brother, “you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
Poseidon shrugs, a mortal gesture he’s picked up sometime in the past decade. It looks strange on the powerful form of a god, but on the more mortal skin and fashion the deity has taken to favoring, it is right at home. Hades kind of hates it, but unfortunately, his brother is stubborn and won't change his mind whenever he decides to pick up a new mortal custom.
“What will you do?” Poseidon asks curiously.
Hades keeps his expression bored, “I will deal with them.”
His brother’s lips twitch, “you’re horrible at pretending you’re cold-hearted,” he pokes, because he’s irritating and doesn’t know when to quit it. Hades scowls at him, “then leave it be. What I do is none of your business.”
Poseidon’s face turns away, “I will bide you some time, but you know how he is.”
Hades doesn’t move to thank him, but he nods slightly. He feels, more acutely than it has any right to be, one of his nephews cross the Styx, struck down by his own father. More would follow. As far as Hades knows, Zeus has at least three others sired. One, a German soldier, easy enough to get rid of even if he’s past sixteen. Two, a girl in Wales, fourteen years. The third hasn’t even reached a decade.
“He works fast,” Poseidon comments, not quite indifferent but expressionless in the way Hades knows to mean he wishes he could be.
Instead of responding, the god of the Underworld fades back into the shadows of the throne room, and finds himself on the streets thousands of miles away. The city has been bombed, dust coating the air in a thick, suffocating wave. He picks his way through the rubble, easing some of the more hesitant, more stubborn souls towards where Thanatos waits with an open, gentle embrace. The god of death cradles the spirits in the folds of his wings, and takes off, perhaps to give his King some privacy.
Hades crouches towards one of the bodies, and with two long fingers, delicately closes the electric blue eyes, open wide and haunted. Ceaseless suffering, he thinks. Not even a mortal construct, but one molded and perpetuated by gods, gods who are always so certain how above humanity they are. But here, a child calculatingly killed by their own father.
He turns away, again, in mid sweep of his dark himation appearing back in America. He can almost hear his children’s voices laughing down the street, bouncing off the stone and cobbled walls. Nico dashing down the road, clutching his silly little playing cards that always makes Hades smirk ironically, waving his arms around, and Bianca strolling with all of her mother’s elegance, reading a book and pretending to go along with her brother’s games. His dear Maria would watch over them, seated on a black metal bench, everything about her as elegant as a mortal could possibly be. It had been her poise that drew lovely Persephone’s eyes to her first, and the glitter in her eyes that stayed Hades’ own attention.
“My Lord.”
Hades turns to look at the young girl standing beside him. Edita looks to have gathered back her strength from the delivery of that fateful prophecy, chin jutted strongly, her arms folded. Thinking of his children and his lover, Hades can’t help but understand Zeus’ wrath at the girl.
“Oracle,” he greets quietly.
“You don’t have much time, if you wish for all of them to live,” she warns.
Hades’ eyes flash, “I know the stakes, girl.”
“No, you do not,” Edita’s eyes flicker green, “not yet. Do not wait until the end of the week, my lord. You have less time than that.”
“Get out of my sight,” he snarls at her, and she looks at him intently, before bowing low,
“My warning, before the lightning strikes,” she cautions again, “heed it.”
And yes, Hades wishes he had.