Chapter One

The pain became indistinguishable. Like a numbness paralyzing his bones. It felt serene, peaceful, the tell-tale signs of death approaching his door. For a few hours, anyway. Death, always fleeting, lacked a presence in the Underworld.

Movement alerted his senses. He struggled to open his eyes. Tired, he barely lifted them to see his boot—or perhaps the shine of his armor—move to the other side of the room.

"You've grown quiet."

Something wet, his blood no doubt, trailed down the side of his nose. The blade dug an inch closer to his forehead. It distracted him for a moment, reminding him of the pain he initially forgotten. Death would not come so easily. Not when the Lord of the Underworld extended his time, if only for a moment longer, to remain alive.

The chains rattled against his protest then he fell slack. His breathing echoed across the room.

"Still alive. Good." Footsteps approached and ended in front of him. "As I mentioned before, all it takes is a simple confirmation. What say you, Shun?"

Strength anew, Shun opened his eyes, and there, standing before him, the God of the Underworld waited for his response. But he did not receive one; his strength fleeting, he could not utter a sound. The blade inched closer. Shun gritted his teeth. Hades, displeased, roamed across the room.

"You cling to her, even when nothing remains of her. Not even her saints."—a rustle forward—"To follow her would mean the same fate."

His fingers twitched, the chains around his wrist tightened.

"Do you not understand?" No elicit response, so he continued, "Not every warrior is loyal to their master. Surely you must have seen a few of your comrades bear my mark."

It came to him, all of sudden, a soft, utterance, "Puppets."

Hades replied, a jovialness in his tone, "Precautions."—pause—"It's better to have a puppet than to have a free will."

Fingers twitching, he felt his body stir with vitality. Adrenaline struck every nerve, awakening his body from a groggy state; and along came the pain, increasing by the bit, as he stretched his neck to face his captor.

Blue eyes returned his gaze, intrigued, but apathetic. No words exchanged. The silence became the dominant substitute. Then it was broken by a smile, and death came quickly. Hades's displeasure remained affixed upon his features.

An angry god, that he was. So easily invoked by the simplest disobedience.

If Shun could only feel his face, he was sure that he would be smiling as of now.

In the prison of the dark world, where he drifted along, the silence brought back memories; memories of his time in the underworld, memories that he wanted to forget. He wished he could remember his brother, his friends, of the happier times he held with them but the dominant presence in his mind was none other than Hades.

From the torture and screams to his friends' impenetrable prison to the dungeon he was in, there was no escaping what he endured. He remembered his mistakes, from his hesitation in battle to his agitation to flee from his prison cell; it haunted him down his dark descent. No wonder Chronos easily subdued his mind with promises of escape. How he wanted freedom.

But freedom never came.

Just another prison cell he moved and remained.

Down the darkness, he drifted.

Down the dark abyss.

Until all that remain was him and the insufferable memories caged within him.

…

…

Perhaps the gods pitied him and saved him from his prison. He laid on a mattress, or what he perceived as one, and felt the distinction between reality and solitude. Foreign hands touched his face, a wet substance cooling him. Curious, he opened his eyes. The light blinded him the minute he did. He shut his eyes tight, the swirling lights of red illuminating behind his eyelids.

"It's okay," a tender voice spoke to him. "You'll be okay."

The reassurance helped little to ease his nerves. But, as much as he wanted to remain awake, the darkness took him into a slumber he desperately needed. When he awoke, he slowly opened his eyes and perceived a hazy sight. He shut them, and it remained shut, even when there was more than one person inhabiting the room.

…

…

Maria knew that he no longer slept. Alert, cautious, he remained, even when she exhibited a mother's touch. Nothing could ease him. It made her wonder: what could she do to alleviate his nerves?

With both hands cradling his face, she pressed her forehead against his and offered a prayer to Asclepius—"May his wounds heal and may he survive."—and to the spirit Pistis—"May your good faith touch his heart and may he trust me." She kissed his nose and then his forehead and ended her prayer.

Spirits lifted, Maria leaned back and opened her eyes, her hands still pressed against his cheeks. And staring back at her were the dullest pair of green eyes, aloof and listless, lacking a spirit. Frightened, she could not look away, not even at the request of her friends. Those green eyes stared straight at her soul. Her mind, how it urged her to look away, but she could not.

Then he shut his eyes, and the spell shattered.

She took in a deep breath, placed her hands above her racing heart.

"Maria?"

At the sound of her name, she turned to Anna.

"Is something the matter?"

Not wanting to distress the girl, Maria shook her head and stood. "I..." She looked back at the young man. Asleep, he did not stir. "I'm just worried."

Anna approached. "He'll be fine. It's like you said. As long as we have faith, he'll recover."

Maria turned away from him, and stared at the young girl. A smile beamed on Anna's face. She reluctantly returned a smile. However, even as the day went by, even as she washed away the bloody towels, and as she chided Caro to remain inside and let her retrieve the buckets of water, she still felt his eyes, staring at her, listlessly.

And she swore she even heard a voice say, "Traitor."