Chapter 223: Chapter 67
Hades sat alone in the private chamber of Bone Appetit, the finest establishment in all of Nox, its pale bone chandeliers glowing with the faint shimmer of ghostly fire, casting silver light upon the god who sat in silence, wine untouched before him.
His thoughts weighed heavily, tangled with the words Hera had spoken earlier, the questions she had asked, the truths he had admitted.
He wondered if perhaps she had already left, if she had decided her pride was greater than the uncertainty of waiting for an answer from him.
For a fleeting moment, the thought stirred a dull ache in his chest, a sensation so foreign that it only deepened his confusion.
Just then, the door opened with a quiet creak, and a female divine spirit, clad in robes of dark blue embroidered with silver thread, stepped in.
Her voice, reverent and formal, broke the stillness. "Lord Hades, Lady Hera requests your presence in the grand hall."
Hades raised his head slowly, his purple eyes gleaming faintly in the low light. He gave a single nod, his expression calm, though inside his mind churned.
He stood, tall and composed as always, and followed the spirit through the winding marble halls of the restaurant, their polished obsidian walls reflecting the soft glow of the lanterns.
The sound of his steps was steady, measured, but each one carried the weight of anticipation.
When the doors of the grand hall opened, the sight awaiting him caused even the stoic ruler of the underworld to pause.
There, standing upon a podium carved from pale bone and veined with molten gold, was Hera.
She now wore a crimson dress that flowed like liquid fire, its fabric shimmering faintly under the glow of divine light.
Her long white hair cascaded freely down her back, unbound and unrestrained, a stark contrast to the regal braids she so often kept.
Her golden eyes radiated both warmth and power, their intensity enough to command silence from all present.
As Hades entered, Hera turned toward him, her lips curving into a smile that was both challenging and vulnerable.
Her voice carried through the hall, clear and deliberate.
"Hades, ruler of the dead, the one whose heart remains a mystery even to himself. You said you did not know if you had accepted love, or if you even understood it. Then let me ask, does your heart have space for me? Tonight, I will see for myself."
The hall fell into a hush as Hera’s hand lifted, graceful and sure, and then she began to recite.
Her voice softened, yet carried an aching clarity, every word resonating with the crowd of divine spirits gathered to witness.
"It began with two children. A boy, solemn and lost, and a girl, bright and unyielding."
"They walked the same paths, shared the same burdens, breathed the same air."
"The boy, weary of fate, leaned upon her strength."
"The girl, with patient hands, carried the weight he could not bear."
"Time passed, and their bond grew deep."
"But where the girl’s heart blossomed with love, the boy’s remained closed, untouched by the flame he had never learned to name."
"She waited, silently yearning, her eyes seeing what his could not."
"But the boy, blind to her devotion, offered her only reliance, never affection."
"So the girl, with trembling heart, turned away."
"She sought love elsewhere, in arms that promised what he could not give."
"And the boy, left with an emptiness he did not understand, felt pain for the first time."
"But pain without knowledge brings only silence."
"He did not call to her. He did not fight."
"He let her slip away, as if love had never been theirs to claim."
"In the end, they parted."
"Two souls bound by fate, severed not by distance but by ignorance."
"She learned to love another."
"He learned only the shadow of regret."
"And though they had stood side by side for so long, they never gave themselves the chance to love each other at all."
The hall remained utterly silent when her final word fell. Even the ever-present hum of spectral music seemed to fade into stillness, as if the Underworld itself bowed to the sorrow woven in her verses.
Hera lowered her gaze briefly, as though the weight of the tale pressed upon her own soul.
Then her golden eyes lifted once more to Hades, shimmering with unspoken emotion.
"This," she said softly, her voice trembling with controlled intensity, "is the tragedy of love unrealized. Of bonds wasted. Of hearts that never learned to speak to one another. Tell me, Hades... will you let history repeat itself with us?"
The question hung in the air like a blade, sharp and unyielding, demanding an answer he could not so easily give.
Hades remained silent, his tall frame standing still in the vast hall, yet within his mind, storms raged without mercy.
Hera’s words, her tragic poem, echoed again and again, each verse sinking deeper into him, striking places he did not even realize were vulnerable.
His sharp, calculating mind, the mind that could rule over millions of souls without faltering, now grasped helplessly at questions he had no answer for.
At first, he replayed the story as it was told, of the boy and the girl, of devotion and blindness, of love lost and regret unspoken.
But slowly, as though by instinct, he began to replace the faceless characters with those dearest to him.
The girl became Hera, unwavering, radiant, carrying burdens alongside him even when he never asked, her love hidden beneath her dignity.
He saw himself as the boy, blind, unknowing, drowning in endless work and responsibility, never seeing what had always been offered so clearly.
And when the image of Hera walking away took shape, when he imagined her turning her back and offering her love to another, his chest tightened with such violence that he almost staggered.
But his mind did not stop there. The faces changed again, the girl’s hair changed, her presence became calm, mysterious, unwavering, and he saw Hecate in her stead.
He saw her watching him from the shadows, not demanding, not pressing, but always there, the one person before whom he could unravel the chains of his crown and speak without fear of judgment.
What if she, too, one day realized she wanted more than his quiet reliance?
What if her patience ended, and she sought another? The thought struck him with such cold dread that he could barely breathe.
And then, yet again, the image shifted, and the girl’s laughter turned bright, intoxicating, golden.
Aphrodite’s face, smiling as though the world itself existed to amuse her, came into view.
She was the one who brought chaos into his silence, who forced him to feel in ways he never imagined, who reminded him of warmth and desire when he would have otherwise buried himself in eternal duty.
What if she left, chasing someone who could better understand her domain of love, someone who could return her affection without hesitation or restraint?
The image of Aphrodite in another man’s arms seared his heart with unbearable heat, something far worse than jealousy, something primal, suffocating.
And in that moment, Hades realized.
It did not matter if this was love or possessiveness, devotion or selfishness, clarity or delusion.
Whatever name it carried, it was his truth.
The thought of any of them—Hera, Hecate, or Aphrodite—being lost to him, being held by another, was unendurable.
He could not do without Hera’s strength, without Hecate’s quiet understanding, without Aphrodite’s warmth.
Each of them, in different ways, anchored him to a life that went beyond duty and darkness.
Without them, he would drown in endless work, in cold calculation, in the role of king and judge with no reprieve.
Without them, he would cease to be the Hades they loved, and become only the empty shell of a ruler.
For him, there was no compromise.
Even if it was selfish, even if it was cruel, he would not accept them being with anyone else.
Not Hera, not Hecate, not Aphrodite.
His eyes became firm, taking a deep breath, he stared at Hera.
And the goddess of marriage, seeing the change in his eyes, smiled brightly.
She knew, at this moment, her feelings have finally reached him.