Chapter 235: Chapter 79
Hades’ office was quiet, its eternal silence broken only by the faint rustle of parchment.
Piles of scrolls lay across the obsidian desk before Hades, each inscribed with the records of souls, the balance of underworld gates, and the ever-present calculations of cosmic equilibrium.
Yet not a single word upon them held his attention.
He sat there, unmoving, his chin resting upon one hand while the other absently toyed with the handle of a stylus.
His violet eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, stared at the blank air ahead.
His mind was elsewhere, far removed from duty, far from death, far even from the endless weight of his title.
Marriage.
The word lingered in his mind like an echo that refused to fade.
He had said it—declared it, in fact—before Nyx without hesitation.
He would marry Hera, Hecate, and Aphrodite.
It had seemed simple then, spoken with the same calm certainty with which he commanded armies of shades or sealed pacts with primordial beings.
Yet now, in the stillness of his chamber, the implications of that decision pressed against him with a different weight altogether.
It was not that he feared them.
Far from it.
He respected each of them deeply—cared for them, even, in his own quiet and measured way.
But what he could not ignore was the shadow that loomed beyond it all: Nyx’s plan, the coming convergence, the encroaching threat from the outer dark.
Once the fusion of the universes began, there would be no peace left for such things as weddings.
No time for vows, no laughter, no celebration. Only war, blood, and the unending struggle to hold existence together against beings that could consume reality with a thought.
He leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes wander to the cold stone ceiling above.
If he were to marry them, it had to be now.
Before the coming storm.
But how?
He had no idea how divine marriage was supposed to proceed.
Mortals had ceremonies—rings, offerings, sacred vows before temples and witnesses. Gods, however, were different.
Many simply declared a bond and let the cosmos itself bear witness. Others sealed their unions through power or passion, merging divine essence in a way mortals could never comprehend.
He frowned. Should he simply visit each of them and... declare it? Or would that be insulting? Should he follow mortal tradition instead—kneel, offer a token, ask for their consent properly?
He had watched humanity grow for eons, yet this particular ritual still felt alien to him.
And there was also the matter of precedence. Among the gods, marriage was rarely done out of affection.
Most divine unions were political, practical, or symbolic. The last one he could recall was Poseidon’s, and he hadn’t even bothered to attend.
Maybe he should ask him for advice?
He grimaced slightly at the thought.
Poseidon would no doubt make a spectacle of any question regarding marriage, mocking him for his seriousness and restraint.
No, he would rather face an army of gods than ask his brother for romantic counsel.
His eyes drifted toward the faint shimmer of the underworld’s barrier, the infinite night that separated the mortal realm from his domain.
Then, a different thought entered his mind.
His mother.
Rhea. The Titaness of fertility and motherhood.
She had once guided the cosmos when even the Olympians were young. If anyone could offer advice on such an unfamiliar subject, it would be her.
She was the only being alive who could remind him that gods, for all their divinity, were once children too—awkward, uncertain, seeking guidance in matters they didn’t understand.
He stood, his black robes cascading around him like liquid shadow. The moment he rose, the air shifted, responding to his will.
The Underworld itself seemed to hold its breath.
"Thanatos," he called quietly.
The shadows deepened. A dense black mist filled the room, swirling with cold energy before solidifying into the kneeling form of Thanatos.
The god of death’s aura flickered like candlelight—his expression solemn as ever, though his eyes betrayed the faintest anxiety that came with being summoned unexpectedly.
"My lord," he said, bowing his head low.
Hades regarded him silently for a moment, then gestured toward the desk.
"I’ll be leaving for a while. The administration of souls will continue as usual. You will handle it."
Thanatos blinked, following his gaze to the mountain of paperwork stacked precariously high.
His wings twitched once, the faintest sign of despair creeping into his otherwise stoic demeanor.
"Yes... my lord," he managed to say, his voice steady but his tone hollow.
"Good," Hades said simply.
He turned, already half fading into the shadows. "I will return shortly."
Before Thanatos could gather the courage to ask where or why, the space around Hades distorted.
His form dissolved into purple flame, vanishing without so much as a whisper.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Thanatos stood alone in the vast black chamber, staring at the desk that now seemed to loom over him like a mountain range of bureaucratic torment.
The weight of a billion unprocessed souls stared back at him from the endless scrolls.
He let out a long, resigned sigh and slumped slightly, muttering to himself in a tone that could only be described as defeated.
"Lord Hades... you are merciless."
Then, with a soundless groan that echoed through the halls of the dead, Thanatos sat down at the desk, picked up a stylus, and began the eternal, thankless task of paperwork—each stroke of ink draining his divine will a little further, as though his soul were being quietly siphoned away by bureaucracy itself.
*
*
*
Overworld. Rhea’s domain.
Upon a lonely hill crowned with ancient cypress stood a modest temple — white stone veined with silver, its columns worn smooth by time and touched by the hands of countless nymphs who tended its gardens.
It was not adorned in grandeur like Olympus, nor carved in shadowed elegance like the palaces of the Underworld.
It was simple, quiet, and serene.
And there, in front of it, the air rippled.
A pulse of purple flame shimmered for an instant before solidifying into the tall, dark figure of Hades.
His presence was silent, heavy, commanding; the light itself seemed to dim around him, and the flowers nearest to where he stood folded slightly inward as though bowing.
The nymphs working nearby froze.
For a heartbeat, none dared to move.
Then one gasped softly, and the others followed instinct — dropping to their knees, foreheads almost touching the ground.
The name Hades carried weight even here, far from the lands of the dead. He was the unseen sovereign, the god of the invisible, the ruler who did not boast yet whose will none could defy.
A few braver nymphs scrambled to their feet and ran inside, their hurried steps echoing faintly through the marble hallways as they rushed to announce the impossible — that Lord Hades himself had come.
Hades, meanwhile, stood still, his face expressionless as ever.
Inside, however, he was far from calm. He had faced ancient horrors, spoken with beings that could erase existence with a glance, and yet somehow, the prospect of speaking to his mother about marriage filled him with an unfamiliar tension.
He folded his hands behind his back, gaze flicking toward the temple doors.
How should he even begin? Mother, I intend to marry three goddesses, and I require your advice?
The thought sounded absurd even in his own mind.
Before he could think further, movement stirred within the temple.
Inside, the great Titaness Rhea sat upon a cushion of woven starlight, her hands gracefully stitching a long scarf made of wool finer than mist.
Beside her, Hestia sat cross-legged, a small easel before her, brush in hand as she painted the tranquil gardens outside with quiet concentration.
Several Nymphs stood silent, waiting for a moment to assist if needed.
The air was warm and gentle, filled with the faint crackle of Hestia’s divine flame, a perfect image of peace.
The serenity shattered when a nymph burst through the doorway, panting, face pale with panic.
"L-Lady Rhea! Lady Hestia!" she cried, voice trembling. "L-Lord Hades has appeared before the temple!"
For an instant, both goddesses froze mid-motion.
The brush slipped from Hestia’s fingers, landing against her canvas with a streak of crimson.
Rhea’s needle halted mid-stitch, her hands suddenly still. The scarf dropped into her lap as her mind processed the words.
Then, after a stunned moment, the Titaness straightened, her composure returning with the grace of one who had seen entire eras rise and fall.
Her golden eyes brightened, and the corners of her lips curved upward into a radiant smile.
"Invite him in," she said quickly, her voice trembling slightly with excitement despite her calm tone. "Quickly, child—invite him in at once!"
The nymph bowed, spinning on her heels to run back outside, but before she could take more than two steps, Rhea lifted a hand.
"Wait."
The nymph froze.
Rhea stood, smoothing her robes and running a hand through her long, silvery hair.
"Never mind," she said softly, eyes shining. "You and the others may tidy this place. I will greet him myself. Let’s go Hestia."
Hestia blinked in surprise, then smiled quietly and rose to follow her.
"Yes, Mother," she said gently, her tone warm and amused. "It’s been too long since he visited. You deserve to greet him first."
The nymphs barely had time to nod before both goddesses were already gliding toward the temple entrance.
The moment they disappeared beyond the inner hall, the nymphs seemed to awaken from their paralysis, and chaos erupted.
Brushes, bowls, and fabrics flew through the air as they began cleaning at inhuman speed.
Dust vanished, marble gleamed, and flowers realigned themselves under divine panic.
The sound of hurried footsteps and whispered prayers filled the temple, every nymph moving faster than Hermes at full sprint.
Outside, Hades remained where he stood. The faint hum of power from his form caused the shadows at his feet to ripple softly.
He stared at the doors, rehearsing words in his head that sounded wrong each time he thought them.
Perhaps he should open with courtesy. A simple greeting. Then perhaps... explain that he needed maternal counsel.
No, it sounded too formal, too detached.
He frowned slightly. What should he say?
Then, before he could continue that futile exercise, the temple doors opened.
Rhea stepped into the light — tall, graceful, her presence both regal and maternal.
Her hair shimmered faintly in the sun, and her eyes glowed with that familiar warmth he remembered from long ago, when the world was still young.
Beside her was Hestia, her aura soft, her gentle flame-like presence radiating calm and quiet affection.
Hades immediately straightened, expression settling into composed neutrality as though his earlier hesitation had never existed.
"Mother. Sister," he greeted, his tone steady and deep.
Rhea’s smile widened, her joy unrestrained. In two strides she closed the distance between them, arms spreading before he could protest.
"My son," she said, her voice thick with delight. "You finally came to see me of your own will."
Before he could react, she embraced him tightly, pressing a kiss to his cheek as though he were still her child and not the god who ruled the dead.
Her divine aura wrapped around him like sunlight against his ever-present cold.
Hades endured it in stoic silence, though his eyes softened almost imperceptibly.
Then Hestia stepped forward, her own smile gentle as the hearthlight. She hugged him briefly, warmth spreading where her divine flame touched his dark robes.
She kissed his other cheek lightly, murmuring, "It’s good to see you again, brother. You look well."
For a long moment, the three of them simply stood there — the god of the dead framed between the Titaness of life and the goddess of the home, shadow and warmth blending into quiet harmony.
And though Hades said nothing, for the first time in an age, the weight that pressed against him seemed to lift just a little.