Title: The Lost Prophecy
Author: Erik-in-CT
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Please don't sue me. I'm poor.
1971:
The sun was shining brightly, as it always was, on the strawberry covered hills. At a small table shaded from the brilliance of the sun, two men sat, deep in conversation. They had been there all morning, and seemed no closer to any sort of agreement than they had been when they first started their discussion.
"He deserves the chance to learn about his heritage, to be around others like him," one of the men, who was sitting stiffly in his wheelchair, said to the other. It seemed like the hundredth time he had made this arguement.
"It's out of the question," the other man said, brushing his hands down the front of his brightly colored tiger striped shirt. "He has no place here. Let him follow the same path as his mother. He doesn't belong here."
"Well that needs to change."
"Perhaps someday...but not today."
Present Day:
He was barely even registering what has happening now. He knew he lay on the dirt and dust encrusted floor of the old broken down house. He knew he was bleeding fiercely from several wounds. He knew he was dying. But all he could feel was the urgency that the truths within him be given to another. Someone had to know, someone had to pass along the information he had. It couldn't end like this. But when he was about to give up hope, he heard a rustling coming from somewhere behind him. Then a shadowed figure was kneeling down over him. In the hazy light, he could barely make out the features of the young man who was now trying to stop the flow of blood from his neck. It was no use, he knew. So with all of his will, he pushed out the memories he was so desperate to convey, the thoughts fallling like silver droplets from his eyes.
"Take them," he whispered, his voice hoarse. The figure above him pulled a vial out from somewhere...or was there someone with him? It really didn't matter. As long as they weren't lost. Lost...like so many other things...no, the truth would live on. "Look at me," he managed to say, black eyes searching the face above his, finally locking onto the emerald orbs he was desperately seeking. "You have your mother's eyes..."
Then all was black.
"And who said a child of mine could not be hero?" The raven-haired man lounged on a large throne, made of a deep black rock. "That was pretty damn heroic I thought," he said, though he wasn't speaking to anyone in particular. In fact, there was no one there, unless you counted the dog. But he said it anyway, because it pleased him. Sitting back on his throne, Hades, God of the Underworld, waited for the newest arrival to his domain. His son, Severus.
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