Olympus.1
"Bitter pain seized her [Demeter's] heart, and she rent the covering upon her divine hair with her dear hands : her dark cloak she cast down from both her shoulders and sped, like a wild-bird, over the firm land and yielding sea, seeking her child. But no one would tell her the truth, neither god nor mortal man; and of the birds of omen none came with true news for her. Then for nine days queenly Deo wandered over the earth with flaming torches in her hands, so grieved that she never tasted ambrosia and the sweet draught of nektaros, nor sprinkled her body with water. But when the tenth enlightening dawn had come, Hekate, with a torch in her hands, met her, and spoke to her and told her news"
-Homeric Hymns, 2
Tom Marvolo Riddle was furious. It was bad enough that he had to touch the woman, bad enough that he'd almost died at the mouths of faceless beasts, but then Granger had had to pull his hand like he was a doll, or a child. Worse, he didn't know what she'd done; only that she'd wrapped his hand around air and he'd felt it, a pull, and that now Granger was nowhere to be seen.
Tom was tired and frustrated and -
And fucking cold, because apparently, wherever he was, there was no central heating. This, he'd realise later, was funny in a morbid, not-funny sort of way, as he was in hell, and he'd always heard that he was going to burn in hell someday.
He stared at the cavernous, obsidian throne room. It pleased him that he appeared to be a monarch in this world, too, that even when Tom was someone slightly different, he was still destined to rule. It was only fitting that this room was so dark, so imposing. A handful of flame-tipped black pillars lined the long, rectangular room, casting a cool light on the slick walls. Behind the massive black onyx throne at the very back of the room were several tall, thin windows. Outside, it appeared to be night, although he couldn't see any stars. He pressed a hand against the cool of the glass, looking out at the darkness. Phantom lights dotted the dark landscape, and he spied the sinuous curve of several black rivers winding through the severe mountains. There is even a river, far to the east, that appears to be constructed entirely from flame. Above, where the sky ought to be, there were only flashes of light, too quick to be tracked. Occasionally, he thought he spotted a flash of talon, a glimpse of a wickedly curved beak dipping down to the earth. When this happened, there was always a muffled scream.
Tom pulled away from the window. He still felt the hollowness in his bones, the absence of the woman, but his body hummed with a different, lesser sort of knowledge. He twisted his hand experimentally and a spill of bronze coins mottled with green fell between his fingers, clanging loudly on the black marble floor below.
He stared at them, frowning. They seemed real enough, and he didn't feel fatigued from summoning them, but they were all deformed in some way. Lesser. The thought rankled him, and he sent a stream of blue fire. It was a feeble stream, an inconstant stream, but the metal soon melted nonetheless.
The great doors at the other end of the hall banged open, and he stiffened. Thus far, Riddle had been alone. He hadn't had to explain away his sudden differences, his sudden ignorance, and he wasn't looking forward to fending off whatever horrors this world promised. Still, he was a ruler, and surely he could kill anyone who dared question him.
With that thought to comfort him, Tom slid onto his throne, wrapping his hands around the polished skulls at each armrest - an interesting choice of decor. Rather cliché, but effective, he supposed.
To his surprise, a woman with long, wavy hair the color of rust ran into the room. She was dressed in a swirl of creamy cloth dotted with wildflowers, and her feet were bare. With each step, a sprig of yellow flowers bloomed on his floor, and he looked at the trail with distaste. The room filled with the perfumed smell of flowers and early morning dew.
Behind her, a massive, three-headed dog with glowing red eyes and a long, arrow-tipped tail bounded after her. Its muscles rippled under its gleaming skin, but its fearsome image was somewhat ruined by its lolling tongues and happy demeanour. It nipped playfully at the woman's hem before speeding ahead to Riddle, sitting expectantly at his feet. Riddle frowned, eying the beast warily; something about this was familiar, but he could not identify it - yet. Unlike before, he had no memories from this self, but he didn't mind the loss; he hadn't enjoyed the pollution of Prince Thomas's thoughts, hadn't enjoyed the way his counterpart had lingered on the way Granger's smile had so mirrored his own. It was despicable, really.
"Hades!" the woman said. Her breath was ragged from her run. To his great distaste, she did not kneel at his feet; did she consider herself his equal? He had a hard time believing that his counterpart, this 'Hades,' had allowed such a thing to happen; he'd always preferred to be the sole leader. Having an equal only meant opportunity for betrayal. No, it was better to rule alone.
At his feet, the dog whined, and he shot it a glare. The basilisk hadn't been nearly as needy. Still, he reached down a hand and gave it a begrudging pat. The closest of the three heads barked happily, and the sound shook the glass. "Yes?" he said, looking at the woman.
The question was pleasant enough - or, at least, it lacked his usual venom, but still the woman blinked, uncertainty crossing her blue eyes. She was an attractive woman, and he supposed that she was used to being treated more warmly. "Hades," she said again. "I've received word from Charon. He has spotted two flames the color of blood and heard the sound of wheat rustling in the wind."
What in Merlin's name did that mean? When he did not provide a response, the woman swallowed, looking more uncertain with each passing second. Good. She'd seemed far too comfortable at the start of this encounter. Was he not a king in this world? Did he not deserve respect?
"My mother is here," she burst out. "With Hecate. They are here to bring me home." She looked at him expectantly, defiance and something else warring on her freckled face.
He blinked. Well, he certainly wouldn't object to the removal of this annoyance, but her expression told him that this 'Hades' would. He weighed his options; he could follow his own wishes and send her off to her babysitter, which might have some unforeseen consequences. Was he willing to be that he was powerful enough that no one would dare try to depose him once they suspected he was different? Or, he could keep this girl, deal with her insolence and her mother, who was sure to be just as irritating as her spawn. Perhaps he was giving his counterpart too little credit; surely there was some secret advantage to keeping this woman here. He eyed the woman contemplatively. Perhaps she was the heiress to a powerful kingdom or perhaps she possessed great powers.
He looked at the wilting flowers in her arms and sneered. He wasn't sure when he would have need of flowers, but he'd made his decision. He nudged the dog with his foot, and it stood, shaking its great heads. "Pity," he said, and his voice was a precise whisper. "They have come all this way for nothing. They will find my realm inhospitable."
Shock flitted across the woman's fair face. Had he said something wrong? There was no time for doubt. He pressed on, "You are here for as long as I deem fit. Do not waste your time on foolish hopes."
"You would threaten a goddess?" she breathed, and he blinked.
If they were goddesses, then he must be a god. That was a pleasant thought, and he savored it. A god. Gods were immortal, were they not? So this incarnation of him had not had to fight for his immortality; he had not had to split his soul and lie and steal and bear the sneers of those inferior to him. His hand curled into a fist. Try as he might to banish the memories, he could still remember a time when he had been a frightened boy desperate for acceptance. He hated the thought, hated the reminder that he'd been weak, once. Pathetic.
Surely there were mortals around to worship him. He looked around the throne room, but it was still as barren as before. Then, he remembered his attempt at creating coins, and his stomach soured. He doubted he'd secured the throne with those powers, which meant that, somehow, the rune on his back had corrupted his powers, made them weak.
And this thought was all the more damning, for it meant he still needed Granger. Granger, who could be anywhere in this world.
The woman must have sensed his growing ire, for her face had gone deathly pale. To her credit, though, she didn't flee. Even his Death Eaters - especially his Death Eaters - had known to keep a wide, wide berth when he became angry. This woman must not have been properly taught, yet. At his feet, the dog whined, sensing his growing rage.
She was a goddess, he reminded himself. Her powers, ridiculous as they might appear, were still potentially stronger than his, what with his current weakened state. So, although the words were slow to come, he said, "Be gone."
The woman fled. He glared at her retreating back. Under his hand, the skull smoked and burst into blue flame, flooding the room with the smell of mildew. He stood. There must be some servants to order around. He needed to find Granger.
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Hecate, goddess of witchcraft, the night, and necromancy and sole child of the Titans Perses and Asteria, sped through the Underworld, her two torches blazing a trail through the damned. Behind her, Demeter, goddess of agriculture, fertility, and sacred law, followed closely. She knew better than to fall behind. Outside of Hecate's twin halos of light, skeleton soldiers teemed, rusted swords ready to fell any intruder, goddess or not.
For an immortal, sword wounds were child's play; ordinary iron could not penetrate a god's flesh. In the Underworld, however, the deceased warriors' blades were imbued with poison from the river Acheron, the blood of enemies yet unavenged, and, worse yet, flames from Hades himself. These blades did not discriminate between goddess and mortal, Titan or Olympian, and for that, Demeter kept close. Demeter was a proud woman, and Hecate sensed that it had been a great sacrifice for her to beg Zeus for aid in retrieving her stolen daughter from his brother. It was this pain and determination that had drawn Hecate to Demeter. Hecate, daughter of Titans, who so rarely involved herself in the gods' troubles, had decided to aid the goddess.
Now, she felt the weight of the dead press on her arms, her legs, the nape of her neck. Something had changed; her torches were weaker, somehow, and the night, which she had once known as her oldest friend, no longer felt so familiar. The loss of it made fear spiral in her stomach. Her powers no longer came so easily, and without her connection to the night, she felt adrift. The ghosts sensed it; their hungry eyes were fixed on her glowing form. They could see the golden blood coursing under her skin and hungered for the life it promised.
Behind her, Demeter brandished her scythe, but she was not Athena, goddess of war, and her stance was unpractised. Still, there was a certain ferocity in her eyes - a mother's ire, Hecate noted with detached curiousity.
Demeter had noticed the torches' dimming light, and her frown was visible even in the Underworld's eerie darkness. "Hecate," she called out, and the sound of her voice, full of power, drew the spirits ever closer. "What has befallen you?"
And Hecate answered, "Nothing, sister." They were sisters not by blood but by their joined quest, and Hecate was not fool enough to reveal her newfound weakness. She knew better than to think Demeter would not cut her back if it suited her; the world of gods and goddesses was a harsh one.
There was a great, loud crash, and she hardly had time to twist her wrists, her twin torches becoming sharp daggers in her hands, as a monstrous, four-legged being bounded over a full squadron of skeleton warriors. Its three heads snapped between Demeter and Hecate, and its eyes were hungry. Cerberus, guardian of the entrance to the Underworld.
At her side, Demeter went pale. Cerberus did not take kindly to trespassers, and the dog seemed to grow before their eyes. Hecate pinched at the air, pulling at an invisible cord, and a small, spindly sprout of a boy tumbled at her feet. He blinked, a laughably small dagger clutched in his ghostly hand, and she stared at him for a long moment, disbelieving. She could only hope that it was the Underworld that was affecting her powers so, but even she knew this hope was foolish; she was the goddess of necromancy, and her powers should be strongest in hell. Well, it was good that she was to confront Hades, then. Her quest having taken on more urgency, Hecate set her feet firmly in the barren, black ground and faced the dog.
Boy or not, the ghost would have to do. Hecate commanded him forward, and he obeyed, his face a blank stare as he ran for the dog. This movement occupied the middle head, at least, and she took advantage of its distraction, running from the right to slash at its great paw with her blades.
The dog leaped away at the last moment, and she smelled the stench of rotting flesh as its teeth snapped mere centimeters above her throat. She expected that, and, gritting her teeth against the wretched smell, she thrust her arm up. The blade only grazed the dog's snout, but still, it howled, unused to the pain. It had faced a diet of mostly mortals, who were all too easy to kill, and this new challenge of goddess made it wary.
Demeter clenched her fingers, sending cords of wheat spiraling up its massive legs. It shook the initial stalks off easily, but still, they grew, faster and faster until even Cerberus could not shake free. Hecate saw Demeter give her another suspicious look. Likely, the goddess was wondering why she had not summoned an army of ghosts to aid them, why the goddess of the night had not blinded the dog with an eternal darkness.
To that, Hecate had no answers.
They left the dog behind, still wriggling in its prison of wheat. Death was an irreversible insult, even for the god of the dead, and killing the guardian of the Underworld was sure to gain them only misfortune. While Hades was not as quick to anger as his brother Zeus, he was still to be feared, one of the three great gods ruling the world. It would have been a near impossible challenge to retrieve Persephone even if Hecate still had full use of her powers. Now, in her weakened state, she felt again the shameful prickle of fear.
When they arrived at the throne room, the usual skeleton guards with their gaping eyes and burning staffs were nowhere to be seen.
"Be wary, sister," Hecate cautioned. Hades had always been the most unpredictable of the three brothers, and the absence of guards was troubling. Demeter shrugged off her concern and pushed through the towering stone doors.
"Daughter!" Demeter called, and her voice echoed in the cavernous room. When there was no immediate answer, she strode forward. Hecate lingered by the doors, half-hidden in shadow. There was a slight shift in the air - a cooling, a shiver, and then he was there, the god of the underworld himself. He lounged on his throne of bones, and Demeter knelt before him.
The gesture was a formality; even from this distance, Hecate could see the tension in her shoulders. "Brother," Demeter said, head bowed. "Keeper of the underworld. I come to beg for my daughter Persephone's return. I come with the blessing of Zeus, god of thunder, and hope to seek your mercy."
Hecate watched as Hades's eyes narrowed, and she prepared herself for battle. If it came to blows, it would be a swift battle, one hardly worth writing songs about. No, she must not let it come to that. So, she strode forward, torches lit once more, and joined Demeter in supplication.
"Hades," she said simply. "Without Demeter's blessing, the world above suffers and is barren. It is right and reasonable that Persephone be returned, for she does not belong so far from the sun. You are ruler over many; let yourself be satisfied with that, and allow one girl to return to her mother's side."
There was a long silence. She wished for nothing more than to look up, but to look up now, without permission, meant a sure death. Grass bloomed and withered at her side, where Demeter's limbs shook with the effort of restraint.
"Satisfied," Hades repeated, and something about his voice was peculiar. Troubling. She felt his hand go to her chin, and she stiffened, staring into his eyes. She saw the recognition and the answering greed and feared for her life, for suddenly it felt as though she were not the rescuer but the one needing aid.
Hades smiled, a wholly foreign gesture that looked entirely unnatural, like a smile didn't fit quite right on his sharp face. Hecate swallowed and said, "Son of Cronus, have mercy."
His smile widened. She'd amused him; she wasn't sure how, for she'd followed the standard protocol of speaking to a god in a position of power, but his amusement made her all the more nervous. Gods tended to do wild things when they were amused - even to other goddesses. Most of all to other goddesses.
"Mercy, you say," he said silkily. She felt Demeter's incredulous gaze flitting between the two of them. Hecate was as bewildered as she; she had not had much previous interaction with the god of the underworld, and she'd always found him to be standard if prickly - nothing at all like he was currently.
"I can be merciful," he said. His smile slipped. Then, before she had time to question what he meant, he was before her, towering above. One hand gripped her neck and the other wrenched the neck of her shift down, and she let out a cry because this was not something that should be happening, not to her, but his hand wasn't reaching any further down. She looked down, gasping at the angry mark on her chest. It had not been there this morning; she was sure of it, and the sight of it unsettled her even more than Hades's uncharacteristic fervor.
His eyes gleamed, but now there was something else in his gaze - anger, perhaps, or even fear. To her left, Demeter let out a startled cry. "Hades," she said, making to stand. Her golden scythes scraped against the marble floor. "What trickery is this?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed Hades's dark brow. He didn't even look at the goddess as she crumpled. Hecate faltered, eyes widening. He had struck Demeter; Demeter, who was his sister and who was responsible for all earth's harvest. Surely he could see the consequences of this action. If she were not the goddess of witchcraft, she might have thought him bewitched. But she knew the signs of a bewitching - the glazed eyes, the slow tongue, the apathy.
None of these fit Hades.
The god was still looking at her; he seemed to relish her horror - horror, mingled cruelly with giddiness, for Hecate realised for the first time that the prior, hollow feeling had vanished entirely. Her hand twitched automatically, summoning her twin torches. The flames were strong and true.
Hades's smile widened. "You're welcome."
Author Note: and so begins the next au! all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter :)
