Greece's own Lord of Darkness, Hades, was a lonely soul.

He could very much related to the philosophy that wealth was nothing in the end. He knew, intimately, that there were people—in the world and in the heavens and even below all of that—so poor, that the only thing they had was gold.

For most of his long, long life he'd been alone in the dark, but not always. There was that short time in the beginning, a time of light, of brightness and warmth, of family.

But that was all gone now; he'd been tricked. Tricked by the very family that he had loved so much. Now, while they lounged upon the mountain of heaven, or wandered the earth with free spirits, he remained trapped in this realm of blackness; tricked by his own kin, cold and alone forever.

First he'd felt incredulous and stunned. He couldn't even speak up for himself—surely they'd been joking, this was all a jest. But no, it hadn't been. Thus, after the next few centuries, he'd been practically locked away in the caverns beneath the world, and he'd realized they were quite serious. None of them had wanted the burden of this realm to rule, none of them cared for the consequences it had. So they'd tricked him into it, forced it upon his shoulders. They didn't want him.

Meanwhile in this revelation, he'd felt crushing sadness, and that was the first time he really named the freezing feeling in his chest; loneliness, abandon. It struck at his heart and held it tight in it's icy grip. How could they, he thought. He'd loved them, he'd cared for them, he'd practically raised most of them—and they threw him away. They never wished to see him again. He'd be stuck down here, forever, keeping the cold, blinding, harrowing souls of those passed in this black prison deep in the earth. He wasn't a king, he was a jailer. A warden, of the dead. He wasn't even allowed in Elysium, the one island of hope in the sea of night terrors. Amongst everything else, that was almost too painful to bear, perhaps the worst of it all.

He ruled the dead; the screaming, crying, hopeless dead who clawed at the walls and tore at their intangible eyes, shrieking and moaning and pounding on his doors, demanding that they be given second chances, that there had to be a mistake, that they couldn't be dead, they couldn't. Monsters roamed the underbelly of the earth, roaring and screeching and swinging their bloody claws. They fought the dead and each other—it was a war-zone, a battleground, and he'd at first been too terrified to even leave his obsidian palace, curled up in the corner of the throne room, his hands clamped over his ears, tears collecting behind his eyes, wishing his family would come and save him, help him, rescue him, take him away from this nightmare that was worse than their father's stomach could have ever been—at least there, he thought, they'd had each other. Here, he had no one.

He ruled the riches of all the earth. The glittering gems and shining gold, sparkling silver and jewels a plenty. So much more than even the simplest mortal soul could ever wish for, and he hated it. What good was material wealth, if all it caused him was sorrow and grief? It surrounded him, hard as diamond(for diamond is what it was, and it's kin), sharp as blades(as the words his family had thrown at him, before throwing him down into the dark depths of the earth), stabbing his heart even as he never touched a single ore. It shone brightly and yet provided no warmth—and warmth was what he so desperately craved. Something that was now far from his reach, something he would never have again.

He ruled the rivers underground. The Lethe, the Styx. The stream of forgetfulness and the hateful passage. The gate to new beginnings and the road of despair—the watery grave of life itself. The Lethe purged one's memory and shot one's soul back into the airs of the earth to be born again—but to him it seemed pointless. For what, indeed, was the point of it all? It was a fruitless endeavor; you, who would remember all your past lives once you again died, who would be right back where you had started once your second life ran it's course. It accomplished nothing but for providing a false hope, a security.

However, the Styx was the one he feared—a raging storm beneath a calm surface of glass, it was a river made of all the lost and hopeless dreams of the dead, dreams that were doomed to never come true, to be forever forgotten—and yet they polluted the Styx, coming up to swallow the souls that were ferried over it to reach his domain. Some of them never made it across.

He was frightened, cold and all alone. His family had ever so eloquently left him for dead. He was now fated to spend the rest of his ever long life in this pit of darkness and mournful cries, of roaring nightmares and whispering souls. The only solace he ever received was in his black palace. There, it was quiet—but far from peaceful. This silence suffocated him, choked him, wrung his throat and dried his tongue. He couldn't speak, for fear of breaking it; if he did, what would come out of the shadows? If there was even anything there.

No, he needed someone there. Someone alive, like him. The dead were all terrifying apparitions, and never all there. He needed someone warm and bright, someone who could laugh and drive his loneliness away.

It took a long time—too long, he thought—to find that person.

Even then... she didn't want him either.

Something I had to write for my English class. This is the final draft. The assignment was actually about Pluto, but I just wrote it for Hades because I connect better with Hades' character. And Pluto is basically just a clone of Hades anyway XD Damn copy-writing Romans.

This is it, anyway. Unless you guys want me to continue along this line-I could incorporate this into a prologue for one of my Hades story ideas.

Poor Hades, shhh, you've always been my favorite. It's okay, someone loves you(ME).

Thanks for reading and please review!

~Skye

EDIT: My teacher really loved it! Such a detailed review, why can't you guys be more thoughtful? XD Just kidding, but look at this!

"This is a fantastic piece...and an unusual piece. It spills over the constraints of the assignment the way that great authors always seek to break convention. The possibilities for criticism always exist as you submit work for review. This is part of the challenge of any writer. A critical reader might try to say that the writing here is stylistically too full of hyperbole; An stoic reader might say that it is stuck in a place of effusive reflection; a naive reader might say that it is simply "great." What I say is that any criticism given is not as important as the workmanship shown in this piece. For me as a reader, the best aspects of this narrative are:

A) The way that the writing balances a history (in this case cosmology) with a very personal perspective of a character.

B) The way that the narrative evokes pity, even empathy for a character of the underworld

C) The scintillating word choice that creates image after image. At the end of the piece, my overall experience was that I could just sit back and enjoy reading-a process of discovery. Thanks for your work."

Ahhhhhh, makes me feel warm, fuzzy, and accomplished. Best feeling ever XD