The Path to Victory

Epilogue


Almost a full century had passed since the creation of their new subjects, and Zeus’ quest for immortality had been nothing short of a success. The gods on Olympus flourished, all signs of old age and the ailments that followed now completely absent; even Hestia’s consumption which had slowly drained the goddess of her life was now but a distant memory.

The prayers of the mortal race had raised the Olympians beyond their wildest, most vivid dreams and endowed them with enough power to practically guarantee invulnerability. Hades knew this, because he had seen cuts heal on Zeus’ skin mere seconds after being inflicted without as much as leaving a scar.

For him, it was different. The race of men did not regard him with the awe and respect they held for Zeus and his kin up on Mount Olympus; rather than worshipping the God of the Underworld by traditional means, Hades had become sort of like a demon to them, something to be regarded with fear and dread.

The lack of prayers to him resulted in no change back to his youthful appearance; Hades’ hair remained grey and the skin covering his form was slowly but surely losing whatever vigor it had possessed. The all-consuming fear mortal men and women harbored for death in general and Hades in particular was enough to keep the god alive, but not much more.

Now that a race of thinking, feeling creatures had bred like corpse-eating flies, the Underworld had become the exact opposite of the stagnant, nearly vacant domain it had once been. Charon would have likely renounced his duties had Hades not provided him with proper means to transport the dead into the Underworld. Also of great help was the creature which had become the guardian of Hades’ realm, a massive three-headed dog he had dubbed Cerberus. If the beast’s size alone was not prevention of escaping the Underworld, three sets of snapping jaws and blazing eyes were.

Cerberus had been a gift of sorts to Hades from Zeus. Giving the creature to the god of the Underworld had been one of the only times Zeus willingly came down to his brother’s realm, and he could have easily sent someone else to deliver the gift. The guardian had not just been an offering of assistance, but a gesture of sentiment. An apology. Clearly Metis’ wisdom had been more of an influence on Zeus than previously conceived. Even so, Hades accepted the gift, but not the message which came with it. The apology had come far too late.

Seeing Zeus’s rejuvenated, radiant appearance, only enhanced by the reflective, glimmering battle armor he’d chosen to wear during his visit only increased Hades’ smoldering resentment of his brother.

The king of the gods had gotten everything he ever wanted, while Hades had no choice but to remain underground and slowly fade away, forced to watch how his body withered into less and less, perhaps to eventually turn into a discorporate ghost, much like those he had been sent here to watch over.

Cerberos was useful, but the hellhound did nothing to aid Hades’ own predicament. The only time Hades was briefly drawn out of his downward spiral of misery was during his brother Poseidon’s visits. The sea god did not often visit him in the Underworld; their respective duties kept them from seeing each other more frequently than once every few years, but nonetheless, the thought of being reunited with Poseidon, if only briefly, was what kept a small flame of hope burning in Hades’ withered heart.

Poseidon’s most recent visit to the Underworld had been a welcome surprise, as he had arrived uninvited and without early notice. The sea god was more than welcome to indulge his pleasures with others who were far easier to procure attention from, but Poseidon was stubborn when it came to Hades.

The younger god shared with his brother everything, and spoke to him not like a servant or a master, but like an equal. Isolation had suited the god of the dead quite well and he had grown accustomed to the fact that he would forever be lord of death and dying, but those few and brief moments with his brother meant everything to him.

But sparing moments of heaven in a hellish world were not enough. The Elysian fields, divine bliss to the few mortals who had so far deserved its fields, were only a contemptible façade to Hades, and the company of wailing prisoners and wretched ilk such as Charon merely reminded of how much better things had been when the miserable Olympian was barely surviving whilst carrying the Kraken in his belly.

As he sat in his ebony throne, staring at visions passing before him of his realm’s inhabitants, overseeing the domain of the dead, Hades thought back on his child, wondering if it could so much as dream in its prison of sleep. Was it dreaming of destruction, of revenge against the god who had planned it to be created, only to throw it away?

Hades was. And one day, perhaps soon, perhaps far away, he would step forward and make Zeus pay.


The End