Lying in a field, he rests and keeps her close. Warm bodies relaxing next to each other, they hold each other in a familiar, comforting embrace. The sound of rushing rivers and waterfalls sing in the crisp air: they are in Elysium.

His queen turns to face him.

"The time draws near," she murmurs, planting a lazy kiss onto the side of his neck. Her words shear through him, leave him in tatters.

"Stay."

The corners of her luscious lips turn up. "As long as I am able, Aidoneous…"

"As long as you are able? Persephone, each time that you leave to the world above, every second that you are gone cuts me to down to the bone."

She laughs, beautiful and melodic, and he can't believe that she's here in his arms. "You are so dramatic, my dear king."

Kissing the the top of her head, he smiles, and yet…even as holds her close, dread scrapes and claws at him from the inside out. Once she leaves, he knows, somehow, that he will never see her again. He needs her to stay with him. "Only because I love you."

"And I you."

"Stay," he repeats. "Stay with me." Please. Please don't fade away from me.

" 'Stay'? What do you mean by that, Hayden? Oh—oh my, your nose is bleeding! Would you like a tissue?" Dr. Murphy. He's sitting in Dr. Murphy's office, which means that it's…Monday.

Shit.

"Yes, Dr. Murphy. Thank you."

"No problem at all, Hayden. Now, what did you mean by 'stay'?"

He shakes his head. "It's nothing. Could we go back to what we were discussing before?" No hole in his pants to pick at today, and the bookshelf has been moved to the other side of the room. Montserrat Murphy squints her obsidian eyes, crosses her fleshy arms.

"We've talked about your feelings of loneliness and isolation before," she says matter-of-factly, leaning forward in her chair, "Has someone broken through that?"

Yes, Hayden wants to say. But then he tries to find her, tries to see her face again in his memories, and sharp blades plunge in his belly, make it hard to breathe. Where is she, and why can't he find her?

Panic: loud drums beat in his ears and the rapid rhythms of war pound in his chest. "I don't know if these drugs are working anymore, doctor."

Where is she? Where is she? Where is she, where is she, where is she, where is she...

"Don't deflect, Hayden."

His eye twitches. "I'm not deflecting."

"Yes, you are. You do this every session, and I'm going to be honest: I'm starting to become very concerned. I know that these things are tough to talk about, but it's something you need to do if you want to make progress. You've mentioned your feelings of isolation before, but only in passing. We've never gone beyond the surface of these feelings, and we need to. You need to. I understand that you had a…difficult childhood. Your father was…physically and emotionally abusive towards your mother and siblings. You're angry, and you have every right to be, but that's all I know.

You're not well, Hayden, and that's why you're here. The great thing is that you want help; you recognize that you need it. But I can't treat you—I can't help you—if you refuse to open up and let me in." Oh, Dr. Murphy: sweet, well-intentioned, overzealous Dr. Murphy. He's used up all her patience, and now she's gone too far and broken through his walls without permission.

With no memories of the last few days, and a demanding need to recover them, his already waning self-control cracks. "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Just shut the hell up, Dr. Murphy, for the love of God." He doesn't want to be cruel to Dr. Murphy—he knows that she's only trying to help—but he lost something precious to him. Someone precious to him, and his heart aches, and he needs to find her.

He flexes his left fist. The bruises on his knuckles have turned from red and purple and to black and yellow, and they fucking hurt. He gasps—the cops! The cops, the cops, the fucking cops—they came to his house, his home, because he… brought her there. Leaning forward, pounding head hanging between his knees, he exhales her name.

Seph. Seph, where are you? Where did you go?

"Hayden."

The world tumbles and splinters on its final bounce. He's sitting up again, and the bookshelf in Dr. Murphy's office is right back where it's supposed to be, behind her desk. Did he snap at Montserrat? He doesn't know whether what just happened was real, or if it all took place in his fractured mind.

Nothing makes any sense.

"Are you all right?" Worried lines crease through her tan forehead.

Hayden loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves. He's suddenly very hot and uncomfortable. He's not all right; he's not all right at all.

"I apologize, Dr. Murphy."

She nods, says that he has nothing to apologize for, and that if he would like to continue talking about what he thinks triggered his plunging spiral into her office, he is more than welcome to.

"You want me to talk about the cemetery again?"

"I want to unpack it, Hayden; I want to see how it might connect to your past and everything that's been happening to you within these last few months."

They've had this exact same conversation before at least a dozen times, and the good doctor has never gleaned anything of value from them. He shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't think the meds are working anymore, doctor. If you don't mind, I'd rather discuss that. I'm—I'm starting to lose days."

"Tell me about the cemetery, Hayden."

He clenches his fists, and his sore knuckles force him to bite his lip. Is she not hearing him? "Doctor, the medication. It's not working anymore."

"Tell me about the cemetery, Hayden. Tell me about what you saw there, again. I need to hear it."

He bristles. "My head's fucked up and the meds you've got me on have me sleepwalking through my life, and you want me to talk about the fucking cemetery?"

"Do it now."

And he can't argue with her any longer because as soon as he blinks, he's standing in the middle of Arlington National Cemetery again, caught in the beeswax of a memory and getting drenched in the life-giving rains of spring.

It was March 31st. Two steps to the right is where his client should've been standing, mourning the death of her veteran father whose funeral had just taken place only one hour prior. To his surprise, she didn't want to cancel; she said it was urgent that they meet. That's how it was supposed to go, anyway.

Of course, that's not how it went.

Instead of his client, a young man, so pale that he was almost translucent, was lying on the ground and relaxing in the rain. His gray t-shirt had a crosshatched graphic of a human skull on it that read: "YOLO—Unless you're me." He had his alabaster hands folded behind his mohawked head, and when he opened his eyes, Hayden found that they were pitch black—pupil, iris, and sclera all.

Stunned, all Hayden could manage to say was the obvious: "You're not my client."

"Haha, nope, 'fraid I'm not. I lied about that part, sorry. Although, I was beginning to wonder if you'd show up, but you've always been super anal about arriving exactly on time, so I should've known better," the young man replied, pierced lips turning up in a crooked grin. "It's been a while, Boss."

The boy's voice reverberated throughout Hayden's body, made his head throb. Massaging his temples, Hayden asked, "Do we know each other?"

"We do." The kid stood, and suddenly his young face looked as though he'd lived a thousand lifetimes. No—a million lifetimes. "It's a pity you don't still don't remember. Last time we met, you were a Medici bastard dying from the plague, and you didn't know what I was talking about then, either. I thought that it'd be different this time, but…" He sighed, trailed off. Looking up into the sky, he shouted, "You win again! The world's going to shit, but you win again! The Boss ain't ready! I hope you're happy, bitch!"

What the hell is he talking about? "Hey, kid," Hayden said, "we're in a somber place. Have some respect for the people resting here."

The young man turned to look at him, one arched eyebrow betraying annoyance, amusement, and surprisingly, hope. "The dead are going to need more than just respect, Boss." He stepped closer, and soon Hayden could feel bony, white fingers pulling on the shoulders of his blazer. "You want them to rest? Wake the fuck up." This close, Hayden saw billions upon billions of brilliantly shining galaxies in the young man's black eyes. What in the world?

"What makes you think you can touch me or talk to me like that, you little punk?" Vehemently, Hayden pushed the kid away, causing him to trip and hit his head against the edge of a gravestone.

"Ouchie! Damn, okay, Boss, no touch-y, I get it. No need to shove people, jeez. You could've killed me! I mean, not me, but if I were someone else, Boss—"

"Stop calling me that," Hayden wheezed; his lungs burned as if he'd just done twelve rounds in a championship bout. And, despite the cool air and rain, he was sweating profusely.

"Call you what?" the young man asked, slowly standing up and rubbing the back of his bruised head.

"Stop calling me 'Boss.'"

There was that crooked grin again, and Hayden felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Maybe I really have met him before? he wondered, and his breathing became even more labored. "What, you want me to be a kiss-ass and call you "Your Highness"? Or "Your Grace"? Sorry, Boss, but I ain't about that life. Haven't been for few thousand years, to be honest. And you never liked that shit anyway."

Heart racing, body cloaked in fear, the boy's words tortuously flayed off a layer of security—this conversation was dangerous. "Excuse me? I don't know what the hell you're talking about, kid. I don't know you, and I'm certainly not your boss."

The young man pursed his lips, tongued at the silver piercings from inside his mouth. "Damn, they really fucked you up this time. Probably knew that this would be the last chance to change things before the Other Side finally freaking disintegrates. No boatman, no rulers, Furies and Minos MIA, Phlegethon burning out of control, Tartarus overrunning—I'm just one dude, Boss. Handsome and competent, and a great karaoke singer to boot, but still just one. Hecate's been doing her best to help out too, but we can't do everything. First it was the Titans, and now the giants are running things into the ground literally everywhere. Your brothers stuck up here for a couple thousand years? Fine, s'not like they ever did their damn jobs anyway. Or maybe they did, I don't really know or care: their shit wasn't in my sphere of influence, catch my drift? Nope, 'course you don't. Don't know why I thought you would—none of what I'm saying makes any sense to you. Look, Boss, just listen: we need you and Her Grace back already, so get your shit together."

Titans, giants…Is he talking about Greek mythology? The pounding in Hayden's head grew worse and he heard what sounded like war drums start to beat in the distance. He's fucking nuts. I'm stuck in the middle of Arlington Cemetery, in the rain, with a guy who's completely batshit. "Look kid," Hayden said, putting up his hands in what he hoped was a pacifying gesture, "I don't know who you think I am, but—"

"Ha!" the kid laughed, throwing his head back. "I get it, you think I'm crazy; I can see it on your face. I shouldn't be surprised. You did last time too, back in Florence. Your mind getting stuffed in a blender will do that to you, sure, but it's not my mind that's being fucked with." He suddenly glared at Hayden, furrowed his dark brows. "It's yours."

Hayden cocked his head, peered at the strange creature in front of him. Even with his umbrella, the rain still soaked through any sense of protection his clothes gave him. Soggy, cold, and frightened, he wanted to go back home. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and for a short second, Hayden thought that he saw a skull in place of the young man's face. The kid's countenance shifted back to normal quickly, but soon feathery, shadowed wings spread out from behind his back, and Hayden's stomach twisted into an incredibly tight knot.

"Ah," the kid puffed, satisfied. "I know that look. I wanted to see what you were like nowadays. They screwed around with you quite a bit this time, I gotta say, but…there may be hope for you yet, Boss. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, because otherwise, we're fucked."

The enormous wings flapped, and Hayden's shaking hands finally dropped the umbrella. "S-s-s-stay away from-m-m m-m-me," he stuttered, slowly backing away. This isn't happening, he thought. This can't be happening.

"Don't worry, I will…for now. I'm sure you've got tons of questions, but I can't answer them for you." The beating wings started to lift the young man off the ground and sent gusts of freezing wind through the air. Hayden shivered. "I'm 'fraid you'll have to get through this yourself. But I think you've got this. I hope you do, anyway, because if not, this world is screwed." Hovering in the air, the young man paused, gave Hayden a gentle smile. "I know I said that I'm not about that life, but…it was nice to see you again, Your Grace—I hope that Fortune is on your side this time, and ours. Take care."

This has to be a dream, Hayden reasoned. He was sleepwalking, or he had a terrible hangover from the previous night's loneliness-induced alcoholic binge. Certainly, it couldn't be real; it had to all be in his head.
…But if that was the case, then what did it mean for his head?

Hayden blinked the rain from his eyes, and the young man was gone.

It was his first hallucination.

"Hayden!"

"…Holly?"

"Zane mentioned that you've been getting spacey but Jesus, Hayden, don't scare me like that! What the hell is going on with you? I know seeing Mom the…the way she is right now is hard, but you can't just run out."

A great smith smashes Hayden's head against an anvil, making gigantic waves of nausea roil in his stomach. This can't be right. He was in Dr. Murphy's office, talking about the man he met in Arlington. Unless…

I've lost more hours.

A soft hand touches his shoulder, and he flinches. "Hey, little brother, what's wrong? You…you seem so far away from us nowadays. You know that we're all here for you, right? I feel like…like we're so close to losing you to something, and I don't know why or what this thing is that's taking you, but you've changed."

His mouth drops open. "You—you feel like you're losing me?"

"Yes, Hayden. You don't talk to any of us anymore and I'm so worried about you. Please, little brother, please: don't shut us out. Tell us what's going on." She's watching him intently. Hayden recognizes the look from their childhood; it's the same look she would get when their father would decide to throw them in the basement for days or weeks at a time. He's terrifying her, like the Old Man used to…

He feels like he's been shot.

Vomit threatens to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth and onto her. He covers his mouth, turns, and finally retches onto the street.

"Oh my God, Hayden!" Worried hands pat his back, and the poison that spews from his mouth comes out black and slick like crude oil. "It's okay, I got you, I got you," she keeps whispering. The sound of heavy footsteps clicking on the damp concrete pierces through her mantra.

"Hayden, what the fuck? Mom is waiting for us back there and—aw, hell!" Shit, it's Zane. Zane is going to see him like this, and he's powerless to stop it.

Rough palms press against his forehead. "He's got a fever."

"I have, I h-have, I have to f-f-find…" Choking on the black liquid, Hayden can't get his words out.

More footsteps, and then a bewildered, "What's going on?" and he knows that Peter gets to bear witness to this as well.

"Peter, call an ambulance."

"On it."

"No!" Hayden screams, black spit flying from his mouth. "I have to find her! The cops, the h-hours, the…" The more he talks, the more his head feels like it's being hammered into oblivion. "I've—I've lost t-t-time!" I've lost her!

"Cops? What? What's he talking about? What cops?"

"…It's a long story, Pete."

"I don't know," Zane interjects. "He's delirious and his eyes are fucking bloodshot. Probably using again."

Holly's arms wrap around Hayden's shoulders. She's protecting him, and his lungs burn with the need to scream. "Really, Zane? You're going to bring that up now? Right now?"

"Hayden's an addict and addicts relapse, Holly."

"You don't think I know that? Jesus, Zane, he's been sober for over a decade, come on!"

"So? Hell, you were at his apartment. Don't tell me that you didn't see anything fishy there. He had Zoloft in his trash when I visited two weeks ago—Zoloft! Maybe he's got a script for that, but with the way he's been acting, I'm positive he's got needles stashed somewhere. Look at the guy: he's a fucking mess. He's been a mess for months. This is what addicts do; don't get mad at me just because you can't read the signs. You're the damn social worker. Don't be so naïve."

"Wow. Unbelievable. You are such an ass. I'm not a goddamn child, Zane. I can't even look at you right now—Jesus, Hayden! What are you doing? Stop!"

"I h-h-have t-t-to…" He tries to stand on shaking legs, and his words come out as breathless rasps. His nerves are raw, and with every movement he makes, he wants to bawl. "I have to f-f-find her." Zane's firm hold on his back and belly is the only thing that keeps him from crumpling to the ground again. "S-s-seph. I n-need to find S-seph."

"You're in no condition to go find anyone, Bro, least of all that new girlfriend of yours."

"…The cops…"

"Yeah, yeah, Brother, I know." Zane moves underneath Hayden's shoulder to better support him. "Come on, big guy, let's sit you down over here. Peter, did you call an ambulance?"

From the corner of his eye, Hayden can see his younger brother shaking his head. "Not yet. He seems to be doing better now. I figured we could drive him to the hospital if he gets worse."

Zane nods. "Good call, Pete."

Sitting, Hayden can feel heavy weights pulling his eyelids down. He wants to stay awake, needs to stay awake, but the weights are too heavy and he is too weak. When he inevitably falls asleep, the flaming tongues of a burning river lick at his hands and feet.

"Seph!" he cries out, letting the acrid smoke of the surrounding environment sear through his throat. Pain overwhelms him as the realization finally dawns: in this world, she cannot hear him.

In this world, he is completely alone.

With that terrible knowledge, he dives headfirst into the flaming river, and it's there that his lost, mute memories start to speak again.