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It is dreadful, being mortal. His senses are dimmed, choked at half-throttle. There is filth all around him - in the small cottage, in his clothing, on a body that he can feel decaying with every passing second. No wonder the mortals are insane. This type of existence is downright vile. He yearns to wave his hand and magic it all away, but he cannot.
And it's not for lack of trying. He did, for a good fifteen minutes. No dice.
He's hungry too. Starving. The Fates couldn't choose someone who at least had a decent meal prior to kicking the bucket? A quick tour of the kitchen does nothing but raise his ire. There is a half-chewed bag of grain that rodents clearly adore, a moldy apple, and a lump of something black, odiferous and unidentifiable in a bowl in the cupboard. Further investigation reveals his host preferred a liquid diet, as Hades finds a sizeable supply of alcohol. He takes a swig from one bottle, only to spit it out in disgust. It is the cheapest swill he's ever had the misfortune to sample, and given that his taste buds have been numb the past few centuries, that says something.
No food, no drink. Fantastic. He's gone from his fine, distinguished self to a pauper with a penchant for rotgut whiskey and a lack of personal grooming habits. Is this some kind of cruel joke? Millions of pathetic mortals in the world and he had to wind up in this one?
He's pleased to discover his rage is still as powerful as ever, as he spends the next ten minutes demolishing a table, a chair and a glass oil lamp, which shatters brilliantly against the wall when he whacks it with the chair's splintered leg. It is absolutely unfair that this is his life now. This – all of it – is so beneath him. Finally, sweaty and panting, he leans against the bedroom doorway. He made quite a mess. And with no magic, now he has to clean it all up - the hard way. Marvelous.
With a small sigh, he looks for a broom. If he wants to live in any semblance of normalcy, he can't go around smashing what meager possessions his host had. The small closet holds only empty bottles and a warped stick with no more than five stiff bristles remaining where the brush of the broom should be. Lovely. He definitely has his work cut out for him.
oooooooooooooooooo
It takes two days, but Hades cleans up the little cottage. He also does something heretofore unknown to him – hunting and foraging for food. The dilapidated shed attached to the cottage was home to a plethora of knives, swords and spears. Their discovery brightened his mood tremendously. It's always uplifting to know you aren't going to die from starvation.
He found fresh water in the form of a small stream a little ways away from the rear of the cottage. It was there he speared the three fish he ate for dinner. Bland, but edible. A nearby grove provided a few berry bushes, and he found the tree that provided the moldy apple. It must be late in the season, as the majority of the apples were like their first cousin, on the ground and rotting. He selected a few that were still edible, and carried those back to his cottage in a stained cloth sack he washed, dried and deemed reusable.
The same treatment was required for his host's threadbare clothing. Some of it was beyond repair, but most of the pants were salvageable after a soaking. He chose a deep pool far downstream for his laundering, and a length of twine for clothesline. He used the same pool for bathing, but with only a sliver of lye soap, there wasn't much he could do in terms of true cleanliness.
He had no trouble starting a fire within the fireplace. It was incredibly satisfying to toss everything teeming with insects and vermin, and even a few things that were not, into the crackling flames. Smoke poured non-stop from the stone chimney for a full twenty-four hours, and he wondered if it would draw the attention of others. Since he arrived, he hadn't seen a single soul. Animals – yes. Insects – absolutely. But mortals? Not a one.
Eventually he'll have to figure out which realm he's in, and that means socializing with the locals. The idea turns his stomach. Interacting with mortals as if they were his equals – potentially asking for their help? Ugh. The Fates should have left him in the Void.
At the end of the second day, he is tired but rather pleased with himself. This body is obviously used to laboring and has some level of physical endurance. Earlier he found he liked the feeling of the sun warming his back, as he did most of his work clad in pants and boots only. Now he can feel the coolness of the twilight air, and he likes that as well. It's a refreshing change from a lifetime of the stagnant ecosphere of the Underworld.
He surveys the interior of the cottage with a sense of muted pride. The floors are swept clean, courtesy of the new broom he created from twigs and tall grasses. The meager furnishings are arranged properly, and his ever-present fire is happily crackling away in the fireplace. A cast iron kettle is nearby, pre-boiled and awaiting a tea of berries and a few herbs he picked in the surrounding woods.
The thought of tea reminds him of his vast library of books in the Underworld. Curling up with one of the classics would have been ambrosia right about now. But paupers don't read. This leads him to ponder another dilemma – wealth. He cannot survive on a diet of fish and apples, and what paltry items he has are not made to last. Soon he will need to find a way to make money. It's terribly distasteful – gods do not work for a living. Perhaps he could sell some of the knives and swords. That would at least earn him some better clothes and supplies.
Beyond that, he is unsure of what to do. What skills does he have? He was excellent at killing people, but he used his power for that. He was a master at torture… oh wait - power for that too. Was there anything he didn't use his power for?
Hmm… not much. Well, he can read. He is intelligent – centuries of living provide a de facto education. Maybe there is a need for that kind of skill in this realm.
A lurid thought of using his skills with women to secure an income invades his mind. It's immediately dismissed – he is far too proud to let himself become a female's concubine, and although manipulating women is genuine fun, there's a great deal of effort involved in extorting money from them. He doesn't have time for that kind of nonsense. Suddenly, there is a stirring within him, one that is familiar but more primal and raw than he expected. It is disconcerting and tempting all at the same time. However, dignity stays his hand, literally. Gods do not beat themselves off. It just isn't done.
ooooooooooooooooo
Another two days pass before he's motivated enough to find the nearest town. It is his digestive system that forces the issue. To quote Hamlet, it doth protest too much after a third night of naught but bone-riddled river trout. He follows a marked trail leading east through the forest for roughly two miles before he comes to a clearing. Swaths of tall green grass lay before him, and at their end are brick and mortar two-story buildings of European design. Soot-filled smoke spews from tall chimneys heralding back to the height of the Industrial Revolution. There is a stench in the air as well; a nauseating perfume of lead-based machine oils, vegetable matter rotting in noonday heat, and the bitter tang of week old sweat. Oh the joys of civilization.
He makes his way through the thick field cautiously, his mind awhirl. This isn't Storybrooke. Nor is it the Enchanted Forest, Camelot, or Oz. It could be some weird outcropping of Wonderland, or it could be the Land of No Magic at an earlier time. Had the Fates brought him back in time? Could they even do that?
The thought is equally appalling and appealing. Paradoxes flit through his mind like fireflies. Could he tell his time-current self not to trust Zelena? How would he be able to convince himself that he actually died and then became a mortal man? Even he didn't believe it, and he was living it. He knew his past self would kill any lowly mortal who dared to claim such a thing. He would have killed any mortal that dared even speak to him. It would have been fun.
His daydream is squashed when he comes to the edge of town. This is not the Land of No Magic. This is another realm entirely, one that is a patchwork of time and place combined. Through the archway he sees people, hundreds of people congregated together in a vast courtyard. Knights from the Crusades are bumping elbows with cowboys from the Old West. Gypsies are whispering to ladies straight out of One Thousand and One Nights. He walks towards them, quietly observing the abandoned stalls and carts. Something significant drew them together – he might as well listen and see what all the fuss is about.
He moves closer, meandering his way through the crowd to find a spot with a little breathing room. He's pushed from the side by a Sherlock Holmes look-alike, and crashes right into a brawny, chainmail-coated Crusader. Said Crusader whirls on him and Hades does his best to avoid tweaking him further.
"Apologies, my friend," he says politely.
The knight removes his helmet and blinks at him. "What did you say?" The accent is heavy with French and Norman overtones, but clearly English.
"I offer my apologies, friend. I did not mean to bump into you."
This sends the knight into peals of laughter. "Did you hit your head out in that cabin of yours? Did the fresh air make you daft?" The man grabs Hades by the shoulders and spins him into the small group of other knights. "Gents! Zacharias here offered me his apologies!"
This leads to an enthusiastic reply of guffaws. "Must have been sicker than we thought!" the first knight exclaims, his grip still tight as he gives Hades a shake. "But he's looking good now, don't you think?"
"Aye!" echoes one knight. "Glad ye're well again Rhye!" says another. The rest return their focus to the large stage in the center of the square. It's empty, but it's clear from the massive gathering that something's due to happen, soon.
The first knight finally releases his grip. "Caden is back at your apartment. He's been a tad worried for you – this is the longest you've been away after one of your spells. He feared for your well-being, but I told him not to worry. You might be aged, but you are still a Knight Templar!"
Oh hell no. The Fates did not send him straight into Monty Python's Holy Grail, did they?
The bulky man is still speaking. "I would have sent him for you, but this announcement caused quite the fracas. Do you remember the asylum on the hill? We went there once, decades ago."
"No," Hades admits honestly. "I do not."
"It seems the warden of that region made a deal with a powerful wizard from another world. He sent word to each of the territories to meet here today for an announcement."
"Brother," the knight whispers softly, "we might be going home."
Hades tailors his expression to one of shock and amazement, but his mind is reeling. Where is home? And where are they now?
His thoughts are interrupted when a tall, pale man in a black suit circa London, 1843, takes the stage. The dull hum of the crowd increases to a roar, everyone talking at once. The man raises his arms and calls out. "Cease! And listen."
Hades swallows his astonishment as the entire gathering falls silent within seconds. Those who are not quiet are harshly 'shh'd' by their companions. Impressive. This man has presence and the respect of the myriad of people in this realm. He stands on the stage, mute, arms raised, until all that is heard is a faint scuffling and a random cough or two. His words are strong, filled with the confidence and power of a leader well used to influencing the actions of others.
"Citizens! An opportunity has been presented to us. We no longer need to remain here, lost and abandoned. No longer shall our stories remain untold. I have negotiated for a portal to a new land, one with resources far beyond what we have here. No longer will we be forced to share borders with those not part of our tales. No longer will we be bound by dormancy, unable to live out our destinies. No longer will we be chained to the unknown. We shall be free, and we shall inhabit a world that allows us to follow our true paths and see our fortunes made!"
The crowd's cheers are deafening, including those of the knights around him. Hades' full attention is on the speaker, this warden who can control the hundreds before him with ease. The man continues once the crowd dies down.
"Tomorrow, at dawn, those of you who wish to join me will gather here again. Those who wish to remain may do so as well. I offer this new land only as an option – the choice is yours. Be aware – those who leave with me may bring only what you can carry, as space will be limited in the beginning. We will have to make due for a short while once we are in Storybrooke, but I assure you..."
Wait, what? Storybrooke? The rest of the man's speech is background noise as Hades' mind shifts into overdrive. What luck! Or is it fate? Thank you ladies! Boy does he owe them one. Now it all makes sense. He's going to Storybrooke tomorrow at dawn, and there is nothing in this realm or any other that is going to stop him. He doesn't know where this warden got the ability to open a portal – perhaps a magic bean? It doesn't even matter – he is going to Storybrooke and he is going to have his revenge!
Hades tunes back into the warden's speech. "…so be prepared for a little dissention from the current inhabitants." Hades chuckles softly. That's an understatement. The man pauses, obviously for dramatic effect. "I am certain we can all work with them peacefully." Hades translates that quickly – 'Fight with the locals, and you'll regret it.'
The next words are laced with icy steel. "My final recommendation is one that I strongly recommend you all heed and heed well. The stewardship of the town, as well as oversight of all of you that follow me, is mine and mine alone. Those who wish to challenge my authority will regret it, similar to those who have done so here within this realm. Do not interfere with my destiny, and I shall not interfere with yours."
The crowd seems to shrink upon itself, whispering softly. Behind him, Hades hears a woman mention how her friend upset the warden once, and disappeared the next day.
The man raises his hand and silence resumes. "I take it my message is clear?"
Murmurs of agreement follow, including a soft chorus of 'yes' from his knightly companions.
"Excellent. Then I will see those of you who wish to follow me to the new land here at dawn. Instructions will be provided at that time." The warden turns away, as if to dismiss them, but then stops. The next words are dripping with venom. "Oh, a final reminder. Chaos will not be tolerated. Either you depart with me tomorrow in an orderly fashion, or I will remove you, permanently." A pause, then, "Enjoy your evening." The tall man walks from the stage. Not one soul interrupts his path as he walks down the far side of the crowd and then disappears into one of the alleyways.
Hades is intrigued. That dark man is someone Hades needs to keep on his radar. The old adage always holds true – keep your friends close and your enemies closer. He's unsure which category this warden falls into; only time will tell.