Author's Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you for sticking with this story. The quotes from Part I to IV are lines from the section of The Libation Bearers (Aeschylus) that I was introduced to via Harry Potter. The quote from Part V comes from Marcus Zusack's The Book Thief. Religious content is included; the people of Sicily during that period were particularly spiritual. None of the reflected views are necessarily mine; make of them what you will.

To the people of Sicily who still paid heed to the gods of their ancestors, the decision to name one's child after the God of Death may have been an odd one. But his mother had been one of the Roma, who had left her people in favour of marriage to her Sicilian husband. Her spirit was a tempest and her soul a storm. She smiled shamefully when she explained the name to her neighbours; she claimed ignorance to avoid their distrusting eyes already clouded with the mention of her gypsy blood, "I thought Hades was the God of Wealth alone—how stupid, I confess".

When her son was nine he had spotted a book at the marketplace; a motley collection of pictures and simple sentences that told of each Greek Deity. He had begged her to get it and she had done so with a toss of her glinting ebony twists and efforts of saving and ploughing. It was the only time he had paid attention in school, so he could read those words; at the age of twelve, like most of his friends, he quit.

"Why have I been named after a Death God?" He had asked.

"To worship life," she had answered, "is to know death. Do not make the mistake of fear. You don't know how much they love each other."

Part I

Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death

Sicily, 1936

In the shadow of the night, everything is one and the same.

The di Angelo family was making their escape for these reasons: The father had the blood of the Roma—the scorned Gypsy—hated by a blossoming friend of Italy; the mother Maria was an outspoken woman who laughed at the face of fascism at every chance she got—humour was never beloved of the oppressor; in general, as much as they loved the island of Sicily, where their houses grasped painfully to the jagged cliffs that taunted the sea, Italy was not kind to them.

Their destination was the Church, from which they would cross to the ocean, and make their escape. It was a moonless night and strangling heat beat down upon their backs as they rushed through the whitewashed and peeling houses that smiled sadly at the red dust.

Before their midnight escape, Hades had been seized by a sudden fist of paternal duty. While he loved his children, he found himself incapable of an obvious show of emotion. Tonight, with the fear curdling in him, however, he found his heart aching like a dry bone. With his daughter, it was easier. But his son, Nico, was supposed to be a Man, even at the tender age of ten. Whatever parental emotion the boy had was to be received from the mother.

"Nico," he had finally said finally, as he watched the boy rubbed his tired eyes and waited for his mother to say her final prayers to the porcelain statuette of the Saint Christopher, the patron of safe travel. Hades took from his pocket a tiny, yellow book with faded drawings. "This is for you." He said too roughly for his liking.

"What is it about?" The boy asked, excitement charging him awake. "What do the pictures mean? Why is that one holding the lightning, father? How does he do it—"

"I will teach you," he cut off, his head pounding with the boy's barrage of questions, "Make sure you keep this safe on the trip to America and I will teach you."

The boy nodded reverently as his mother came out holding the hand of his sister, the serious and dark-eyed Bianca.

"We are ready." The woman whispered and Hades nodded. Together they stepped out into the night. In the distance, the sea seemed to hold her breath. Maria and the children left first—a group of four would have been too noticeable, and Hades was the most obvious of the lot.

Tugging the hands of her children and walking on nimble feet, Maria lit the path by capturing the starlight in her hair. They were jars and their souls were silent in fear and excitement. Finally the church appeared. It was a simple building with a rectangular pane of hollow colour in a stained glass depiction of the Christ Child and the Virgin Mary.

A distance behind, Hades followed.

Just as Maria stepped forward to reach the doors of the old church, a burst of light and harsh sound blinded them. Bianca screamed as a jeep rumbled through the scratchy streets. Separated from his family, Hades felt his heart claw its way out of his chest. He hurried forwards to get to their aid but guards leaped out of the vehicle and got a hold on him—a frantic tussle saw him knocked out, his face weeping against the rough earth of Sicily.

Maria took a look of anger and fear at the guards before running forwards towards the church, her desperate hands urging her frightened children forward. She let go of Bianca momentarily, a fist pounding on the door.

"Sanctuary, Father Falconi!" She shrieked as her ribcage begged, "Open the doors!"

Nico joined in pensively, "Help us Father!" He shouted, "Open the doors!"

From the jeep, the town's head of the Carabinieri—the police of Italy, stepped out. The church did not open its doors. Nicknamed Metheus by the people who still occasionally offered a libation to the old gods, he was a man loved, loathed, feared and respected. He smiled sadly as he watched the woman before him, wrapped in a flimsy travelling cloak.

"Do you beg the Lord, Maria?" He asked, "For He blesses the righteous and tramples upon the wicked."

Maria paused from her frantic knocking to spit at the man's feet. "Then he surely will grant you passage into the devil's kingdom."

Seeing no help, she withdrew a gun from the folds of her clothes with trembling hands. She whispered to her children to step back and they did. Before she could fire a shot, however, Metheus did so; a second of silence raised a scream of a banshee before Nico realised first, what happened.

"Mama!" He shouted, followed immediately by Bianca—who was clutching her side, "Mama, get up!"

It was in that moment that the doors of the church were opened; a pane of liquid gold fell across the dark and the dust. Father Falconi saw two broken bodies, a host of vultures, and two weeping children. He crossed himself and knelt to assess Maria; she was dead.

"Into the chapel," he commanded the di Angelo children. Nico shook his head.

"Can you get God to heal her?" He pleaded, "Can you make him? Please?"

"Please, Nico," he looked at Bianca, who still clutched her side, covering her waist with her hands. Ever the older sister, she used her free hand to drag her shocked brother into the chapel.

"Father," Nico begged, "Father, please, please..."

Bianca finally managed to drag her desolate brother into the musty safety of the chapel; little rivers of tears were running down her cheeks. Father Falconi waited until the door was shut before turning to face the police.

"They belong to us." Metheus stated calmly, when the Father closed the still-awake eyes of Maria and stood up.

"You killed their mother in front of them," Father Falconi replied in disgust, staring down the man. "Their sanctuary was her dying wish, will you deny it?"

"Their father is a gypsy—and the Lord does not look kindly on the thieves and murderers. The mother is a traitor to the country. They belong to us."

Father Falconi smiled wanly. "But Jesus made friends of sinners."

Metheus bit down his impatience and was ready to retort but Father Falconi raised his hands. "You have killed an innocent woman in front of a church" he gestured at the painted face of the Christ Child, the baby's eyes staring into what seemed their faces, each detail impeccably illuminated by the golden glow from within the church. "And now you will attempt to defy the sanctuary to take away two more innocents?"

Metheus had his jaw clenched, his eyes betraying fear for once that night as he stared at the stained glass. "Your soul," Father Falconi added, "how much more would you condemn it to hell? If you take one more step while they are under my protection—if one more innocent life is ripped away tonight—nothing in heaven or hell will save your soul from damnation."

Metheus finally averted his eyes; he stared at the hard ground. Hades feebly stirred. The body of Maria did not.

"We will leave, Father," he said, the words bitter in his mouth, "But don't count on their eternal safety. The Lord protects his own alone."

Father Falconi watched as they loaded up the body of Hades—there was only so much he could so—and waited until the jeep rushed off before he hurried inside the chapel. Bianca had her arms around her younger brother, who was sniffling. The British middldeman, Solace, who had once taken residence in Denmark—Father Falconi had heard rumours of a son and wife left behind for some reason, but he didn't have the time to wonder, the man was helping them now—had wrapped the waist of the girl with some sort of gauze.

"She was hit," he said, his accent clipped. "There isn't time for anything else, Father. We have to hope this holds. Their parents…" His voice drifted off.

Father Falconi glanced at the icons, his eyes drifting back to the window that had stirred the fear in Metheus moments previous. "They will not be joining us."

"I'm not going without my mother." Nico protested angrily; his hands were gripping a book, the pages oozing out of his clutched fists. "I am not leaving—"

"Mama is dead, Nico," Bianca said finally. The older girl swallowed her emotion, her sleek hair falling into her face, "I'm sorry but it's true. We have to go now."

"Your mother would have wanted your safety." Father Falconi confirmed.

"What about papa?" The boy protested, ignoring his sister, "What about—"

"Only God can help him, son," The man Solace said; whether he was sincere or not, the priest could not quite tell.

"When he is well, he will join us." Bianca said weakly; she was playing the duty of the eldest, stepping over to take care of the younger. "We have to go first, Nico. Come on!" His face old in the flickering candlelight, the boy finally nodded.

Solace looked back at the Father and tipped his hat. "We'll send word."

"God bless." The priest whispered as he followed them into the basement of the church. A small door thrust into the side of a cold, damp wall led into a passage that wound its way through the old catacombs, tearing its way to the wide sea.

Nico was the last one through, dragged by his older sister, and he cast his final look at the last he would see of his village before the door shut behind him.

-x-

"Do we kill him as well?" One of the Carabinieri asked Metheus as he gestured to the limp body of Hades.

"People fear different things," the man replied. He had eyes that were deceptively tender. He spoke to you in generous tones, and on first impression many would believe that he wanted nothing more than the good of others; he seemed to share a precious secret, a benign promise. "One of those fears were realised with the unfortunate… death," he paused. He would employ guards to surround the church from tomorrow on—no more would claim the sanctity of God to save them; his soul would remain untainted. "But some fear something more, so we must understand that. We will send di Angelo away and whether he survives is not to human will. His gypsy blood, though, will do him no favours."

-x-

On the bumpy boat that scaled the Atlantic to deliver the remaining half of the di Angelo family to freedom, one more of their number surrendered herself to the arms of death.

At first Solace feared another emotional reaction from the young boy, but what happened instead frightened him. The boy said nothing, only clutching the book. He only stared out into the sea as if it was his greatest enemy, his eyes burning fiercely behind a cool steel gate. The minute Nico's mother had died, he had learned that anything was possible, that safety was a myth, a lie.

In hindsight, the death must have been inevitable, but Solace could not shake the feeling that Nico already knew.

Part II

and the stroke that hits the vein,
the haemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.

When he arrived on the shores of New York, the statue of Liberty holding her torch high above his head in an eternal salute to the heavens, Solace left him to the care of a family friend of the di Angelos, a general named Castellan. The older man had a estranged son with who he spoke little, and he took in Nico as if he was a second chance. During the summer, the empty flat across the road saw the arrival of a widower named Sally. She was the only motherly figure that Nico had, in those short visits.

A lot of the time, Nico traversed the streets. At first, with his skinny frame and his bad English, he had been a fodder for beatings. But soon something in his eyes scared his would-be aggressors, who kept their distance. The boy spent his time learning the new language and training. He only had his mother's native and his father's book to remind him of the old country—he kept out of the streets dominated by Italians, otherwise.

He did not see the reminders of the Old Country to remind him of what he lost; he did that very well on his own. At first he embraced grief like a child, consumed it with tears and a ripped, small heart. Then he had learned to turn his sadness inside out, to encase it in a walls of an oath.

He had made a promise when Bianca died. A face burned itself into his mind, the face of the man who killed his mother under the shadow of the church, whose bullets had torn into his sister's skin, who had broken his father; a man with eyes that pretended kindness and bled demons.

His death was the promise Nico made.

-x-

1943

The general rubbed his chin as he appraised the boy who stood before him. He was lean but made muscular from years from hard training. He had the ghost-eyes the general only recognised in the veteran soldiers, but Nico had not seen battle.

What the general did see, however, was a desire for vengeance. Sicilian blood; he had no connection with the mafia, this boy, but the general couldn't shake one of the stories that had stuck to him—of how the women of the Families would kiss the wounds of the departed and swear vendetta.

The di Angelo had asked to be sent—and maybe it was the general's own fault for being so eager to talk about the war with him, perhaps; but after years as a surrogate almost-father, though, he did trust him and so what—not with childish eagerness and a thirst for adventure, but with a hard agenda.

The general ceased the rubbing of his chin and nodded. He would send di Angelo; he may be young and inexperienced, but no one could argue against his determination.

Nico di Angelo would be going back to Sicily.

-x-

His mother would have laughed at the irony, Hades thought, as he shivered in the cold. His bones rattled in the paper thinness of his yellowing skin. The God of Death surrounded by it! Scrounging every day for scraps, the exhaustion and hunger eating him alive… the knowledge of the death of his wife and the unknowing of what his children had become…

Only one thing kept him alive, and the pattern of irony continued, for what anchored him to life was brought him here in the first place. There were other Roma here as well, and they had fashioned themselves crude instruments. It was the oddest sight, to see living skeletons playing music on tambourine bones. But the old music, the tiniest spark within the iciness of the East, kept him alive. They played sometimes, for the Jews on their way to the gas chambers; a small form of comfort in the face of death. The songs changed from time to time, but the defiance and fire in the small strain was always the same. It was a gesture of humanity, still alive in the face of horror. Hades had never been particularly inclined towards music, but the sung tale was a song that he wanted to climb into, a melody he wanted to live inside.

It kept him sane, it kept him alive.

Part III

But there is a cure in the house
and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife.

Nico di Angelo had left the leering skulls of the catacombs behind. On his journey away from the island, the things had scared him to no end, but that was when he still played to the fingers of fear. Once his sister died, he stopped being afraid. How was he supposed to be scared of ghosts when the people he loved had become one?

The one to open the door into the church basement was none other than Father Falconi. In the seven years that Nico had been gone, the man had aged quickly. Wrinkles pressed themselves gently into his skin, making valleys out of the flesh around his eyes.

"Nico? Nico di Angelo?" The old man asked, as he shut the door behind him. "Praise the Lord, if only! It was you they sent, and how fitting… How fitting."

Nico nodded; he used words sparingly now, they were luxury that couldn't be wasted.

"You remember me, of course?" The old man asked with a measure of guilt; the memory of how he had only woken up in time to see the death of Maria had eaten at him, always.

"I remember, Father: sanctuary."

The priest bowed his head. "If you remember that man… Metheus…"

"It was who I came for—it's what this mission was all about. I'll need to know—"

"Naturally," the old man looked repulsed. "He's a grand man, that one. He comes to mass valiantly, he speaks of justice and loyalty and no one donates as much as him! It is no love of God, of course, but fear for his soul."

Nico raised a hand; he was uninterested in talks of anything he couldn't grasp. "I don't want to waste time, Father; do you think I could go tonight?"

"What is it you're planning to do again?"

"Just take a physical grasp of the place, map it out and such. Find the weak spots, all of that."

Father Falconi felt his old heart rise in hope. "It's coming, then?" he whispered, "The invasion?"

Despite himself, Nico felt the same steady joy. He ached fervently to be out there once more, to breathe the dry red dust of his childhood, to see the wild sea from the whitewashed and peeling clutter of houses which would stand like wrapped jewels in the midst of the dark and angry mountains in the night. He nodded and stepped silently into the cool and silent night.

Father Falconi watched his retreating back and turned to face the icons that littered the front of the chapel.

"Praise be!" The priest triumphed softly, "At last; the liberation of Sicily."

-x-

When Nico finished his scouting, before he returned to the church to await the arrival of the Allied soldiers, he took a flask of wine—he saved it solely for this purpose, he didn't find drinking helpful; he liked to punish himself by remembering—and tipped the blood-coloured liquid into the earth outside a copse of trees. It was a libation to the gods, so said the tiny book that was his probably dead father's only keepsake that he had; it was an ancient sacrifice to old deities to aid the children, to grant them triumph in battle.

Of course he didn't care much for spiritual battles, or so he told himself, but rituals were comforting, in their own way.

-x-

Metheus got up from his nightly prayers. His soul was clear, despite whatever the waddling priest from the church had to say. He would have instructed the man to be killed years ago, but he daren't murder a man of God, even though this one spoke words so blasphemous that they couldn't be true.

The priest could ignore the colours if he wished, but Metheus would not. Back on the mainland, Hitler's work might be steadily failing along with Mussolini, and he couldn't care less about what Japan was doing, but in this little corner of the Earth, he had his fist clenching the island of Sicily.

The next day he spent doing his usual work, convinced in his own righteousness, proclaiming his desire for the triumph of his people even as he continued to send others to their death.

He passed the church once, his eyes still avoiding the stained glass depiction—he could not ignore the reproachful eyes that stared at him, that reminded him of his imagined sin. Father Falconi stood outside, talking to a widow dangling a basket of wilted lettuce from her withered arm. His eyes met the ones of Metheus and he did not look away, although the other one had to. Despite what Metheus told himself, he feared for the purity of his soul.

The priest said his final words to the widow, declining the gifts that she proffered; the people of Sicily had continued to brush against poverty under the regime. He gave one final glance at the retreating back of Metheus, knowing what was planned for tonight. His old eyes swept the breadth of the country which he knew inside and out; of a land he was such a part of that it was akin to peeling the night sky in strips and eating it while leaving starlight smeared on its lips.

But the widow pressed and he finally accepted a small bit of lettuce; the boy soldier, the son of Maria and Hades, he would be hungry.

Part IV

We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground—
answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them triumph now.

The night was not made of pure darkness; it was instead made out of a slight brightness that allowed for a viewing of purple clouds smeared with grey that broke themselves apart, the shattered pieces drifting through the heavens.

Father Falconi was sitting in the pews, his thumb sliding against the beads of his rosary, his lips rising and falling in the murmur of a hymn, when Nico appeared, leading behind a band of soldiers—boys of about his age; the oldest was probably just twenty—from the staircases that led up from the basement.

Although smaller in stature, the presence of the di Angelo cast a pall over the rest of the jittery boys. He stepped forwards to approach Father Falconi.

"With your blessing, Father," he said, more out of tradition than anything.

The man pursed his lips. "I still believe that we should warn the rest of the village. To have them torn apart, in the midst of a fight they know nothing of?"

Again the boy's hard eyes scared him. "Father," he sighed, "It is a matter of trust. Who will warn Metheus? Can we be sure that they will not? It has to be done."

Father Falconi followed his shadowed eyes to the door of the church; behind them Nico had watched his mother die, had watched his father beaten and broken, had seen his sister clutching her side as a blossom of blood erupted from between her pale and childish fingers.

"Of course it has to be done," the priest said softly, "but it is how you will do it. Let me warn the rest of the villagers. You may see that some of them will be more than willing to help. What I ask for is a chance."

Nico sighed; it was not that he was heartless, but he was determined to finish his job without the interruption. But he agreed and he watched the old man rush off to warn the villagers.

"What the hell was that?" One of his mates asked, a stray cigarette dangling off his lips. "If anyone warns that bastard—"

"We're prepared, aren't we?" Nico asked impatiently. He stepped out through the doors. Slowly, the lights from the houses blinked awake. He could hear noise and sensed the troop behind him prepare themselves; he hoped to hell the Priest was right about allegiances.

After a while, he saw a bubble of people rushing through the dark: it was a crew of the hobbling old and the tottering young; women and men of all ages.

Father Falconi led the way. "Some of them do not agree," he said tiredly, "and I definitely think they will warn Metheus, but I have claimed sanctuary for those who cannot fight." He gestured the newly chaotic crowd into the chapel. A crowd of men—and some women who pulled hoods around their faces to disguise themselves—were gathered there.

"Metheus has declared his false doctrine long enough." One of them said, to shouts of agreement. The chapel was fully aglow with candles, and the streams of light broke through the kaleidoscopic windows, waking up the earth. Some of them seemed to recognise Nico, who heard the name of his parents and sister tossed around.

Shouts were rising from the village, and Nico saw figures begin to take a form through the dark. They were those who served Metheus, who agreed with Mussolini and Hitler. He bit his lip; this was what he spent all those hours training for; as a child he had wept himself out on this floor and ran away from his home, now he stood there prepared for battle, the fight building in his veins. There would be no running that night.

A discussion quickly broke out about the details of the fight; the assembled crew were tired of Metheus and the regime, and ready to take back the land. Their ancestors were Greek and Roman and Moorish; their gods were different and varied.

When they finally began to walk towards the village, Father Falconi bidding them his prayers as he stood ready to sanction the sanctuary of the church—though Nico had his doubts that any of Metheus's men would care anymore—they saw that Metheus had gathered his folk and were waiting for them, their rifles poised. Predicting something of this sort, his own men had brought extra weapons, though training might be lacking for the villages

The two sides appraised each other and Nico saw the silence again. His father's book was still in his breast pocket; he saw the skinny ghost of his sister dart amongst the trees. His mother was running through the street, one hand gripping his own.

"Metheus is mine." He said.

The head of the Carabinieri raised his eyes towards them—and there was no pretence of benevolence this time—and spoke to his own. "God is on our side," he promised, and his voice carried over, "The enemies of Italy and of His service stand against us—"

Nico's-mate-with-the-cigarette fired the first shot; it rippled through the enemy and sent the old cry of battle flying up; the people of Sicily were still bound to the old ways, their ancestors were the warriors and conquerors and they inherited their spirit. The sides met with a fury that surely roused the old deities.

Nico's friend shrugged, "Well, to hell with heaven, eh?" He muttered, before joining in the fray. Nico hurried to pitch in, swerving through the mass of orange mushrooms of gunshots and the screaming of battle—here and there chunks fell out of the buildings, leaving gaping holes that showed the insides—above the clouds continued to break apart, the sea continued to battle the craggy cliffs. His head pounded and his blood danced; his eyes were peeled for Metheus. Finally he saw the man and ran after him, dodging dust and rubble and blood.

Metheus was making his way to the church for some convoluted reason—and Nico hastened to follow—when he caught up he grabbed the man by the elbow and pinned him against a tree; the colours flashed across his skin, his wide eyes brimming with fear.

"Do you remember me?" Nico shouted, letting his enemy go and grapple with the weapon. "My mother, do you remember her?"

In the scuffle, the man let go of a shot which pierced through Nico's pocket and lodged itself into his father's book. Newly incensed, Nico raised his own gun and watched recognition grow on Metheus's face.

"The gypsy child," Metheus hissed, "The boy with the traitor mother who begged the Lord for protection."

"That's right," Nico sneered, "the gypsy child. And there was no protection that night. Sanctuary came too late."

"Not for you, didn't it?" Whether Metheus was making a point Nico couldn't tell, "You escaped and that I regret. A baptism of fire would have been the only thing that could save the souls of your kind. Your father—"

Nico heard the cacophony continue to erupt behind him; he saw the twisting form of Metheus in front of him and he saw Metheus shoot his gun out of his hand. Nico watched the weapon clatter through the tangle; he was now at Metheus's lack of mercy.

"May the Lord have mercy on your soul." Metheus smiled as his cocked his weapon. Just as he aimed to fire, a spare torch went whizzing through the tree above them, catching the sprigs aflame—one of them dropped and Nico stretched out to catch it and he threw it at Metheus just as he dodged the gunshot. The man screamed as he let go of the gun, brushing the flaming twig out of his face—angry red welts burst from his skin.

"I killed your heathen father!" Metheus gasped as he drew his fingers across his torn face in horror; Nico threw the gun aside once he realised it was out of bullets, "And by the name of the Lord, his devil soul went straight to hell; his name was Hades and rightfully so, is he with the sinners, like his mother before him and like your mother—"

Nico straightened himself with a newfound fury. "No one," he said softly, his voice filled with purpose as the warriors of Sicily battled behind him, "No one will insult the House of Hades." He lunged at Metheus and the two grappled—a schoolboy fight to decide the fate of the rest; the fight of the Powers That Be won or lost by the hands of the little people—in their tiny corner.

Above them the tree still blazed and another flaming branch—and Nico could have sworn it fell with a scream of Seraphim fury—fell once more upon Metheus who let go of Nico in his pain—the boy scrambled out of the way just as the whole tree, all its ancient glory now awash in hellfire, fell upon Metheus, whose piteous, thin scream awoke the night. He was aware of the spiralling plumes of dancing fire reach its fingers towards the sky; of the screaming and clashing and keening around him.

Nico panted heavily, his lungs filled with dust and his brain spinning with smoke. "May the Lord have mercy on your soul." He whispered. He pulled himself up from the dry red dust of Sicily and blinked once. Bianca was gone from the trees; his mother no longer stared vacantly up at him from where she was killed.

And his father… he pulled out the book from his pocket; the bullet had lodged itself neatly inside the pages. He murmured a prayer of thanks—to whatever God was listening.

Before he joined the villagers, he stared once at the body of Metheus—his face remained unscathed; his eyes were open in horror and they stared in the direction of the church, away from the very eyes he had avoided in his sin.

Part V

His soul sat up. It met me.

Switzerland was cold; but Nico was pleasantly so in a woollen scarf drawn against his lips. The cabin that perched on the precipice of the snow-drenched cliffs of the Alps smelled of eggnog and honey and warmth.

He left it behind, bidding goodbye and thank-you to his hosts and made his way towards the small village in the valley. With the victory of the Allies, he heard news both good and bad; he believed both, for he had seen both horror and triumph, and he knew them well.

When he reached the address that matched the scribbled words on a piece of brittle paper in his hands, he took a breath of clear mountain air that sliced into his lungs before he knocked on the door.

As he waited, he was a child again, waiting for his father's approval; relishing his mother's smile.

The man who came was weak and thin, but there was colour in his cheeks and a glow in his eyes. In his hands Nico gripped the book that saved his life—that the father who had given him life had been the one to preserve it.

And Hades, as he stared into the grown face of his son, was seized by the same feeling of aching, defiant triumph that he had had listening to the tambourines even as he had sat amongst death. His back was straight.

"Father," Nico said, "Hello."