The waking up in PJO lore no one really wants, but I need to desperately tell someone â
Hades has never been anyoneâs favorite parent.
Melinoe, their oldest, has always been so independent, she takes after her grandmother in that way. Orderly and proper, with healthy amounts of ambition and a practical worldview. She doesnât care much for Olympus or the mortal realm, finding solace with Nyx and Hecate, old immortals with old magic. Heâs not surprised when she asks to journey with Hecate to the lower levels of the Underworld. He sees her off, handing her a metal container full of pita bread, hummus, and her favorite olives pickled with lemon and paprika. Sheâs in such a rush she forgets it on the entryway table in the foyer.
Makaria, their youngest daughter, is a spitfire. Rebellion incarnate, in the shape of a thirteen year old girl. She outgrew the underworld by the time she was sixteen, bored with shades, and Elysium, and jewels. The only time she seemed to be enjoying herself was when Hera came to visit. âI just hate having to learn everything about the mortal realm five years after itâs already happened.â Sheâd whispered when she accompanied him to bless one of Zeusâ favorite sons, a king of his mortal land, while on his death bed. He sees the way she looks at palace, the ivory columns, and sprawling lush gardens with a conflicted look in her eyes, and he knows it time for her to go. He reaches out to Hera himself, asking if sheâll guide his daughter in the duties of a socialite. He makes pomegranate jam and scones himself when she leaves, and she smiles as she accepts it, but he knows theyâll sit untouched for months until they start to rot.
He never had a chance with Zagreus, not with the way he radiates with wrath, just like his wife. And sure enough, from birth theyâre inseparable. Two beings made from the same fabric. Maybe thatâs why he hungers for Olympus so desperately, practically trying to claw his way out of the Underworld while Persephone watches with a disappointed frown. He wants to tell her to be more understanding, she was just like him once, begging and scheming to find a way to escape her mother in the mortal realm and climb to Olympus. Understanding comes later, after Zagreus makes it out and returns with hunched shoulders and dark circles. âItâs not what I thought it would be like,â he says, and Persephone holds him as he weeps. Zagreus finds his own footing in the Underworld, becoming a celebrity amongst the shades and nymphs. Hades leaves dinner in the fridge every night, just in case, even though he knows heâll just end up washing the full containers at the end of the week.
And itâs not that he feels unloved or unappreciated. He loves his children, and he knows that they love and trust him. They just have people they relate to more.
And thatâs okay. Heâs never been anyoneâs favorite god, temples and shrines are built in fear, he knows that. And heâs never been anyoneâs favorite brother, thatâs why it had to be him that inherited the Underworld. And even Cerberus prefers to sleep with Zagreus these days.
But when he holds you for the first time, bundled in a pale cream blanket, he knows that this time is different than all the others. Melinoe might be for the elder's of the Underworld, and Makaria might be for Hera, and Zagreus was undoubtedly made for his wife, but you â
You were made just for him.
And everyone knows it. They can see it in the way only he can soothe your cries in the middle of the night with his scent alone, the way you place a hand on his face and you shriek in delight when he places his hand over it, the way you only eat when it's the baby food he made personally for you, the way he caries you in a sling and whispers to you all that he knows; about the Underworld, about life, about mortals, and how love is the greatest gift and curse of all.
It's in how his heart breaks in two when Zagreus decides to take you to the mortal realm. He knows it's the right thing, you're half mortal yourself, it's where you belong. He does as Zagreus asks, feigning banishment for not adhering to the rules of the Underworld, when Persephone asks why he let him leave. And he watches as his son ascends the steps to the mortal realm, a cream-colored bundle cradled against his chest. He knew this was always going to happen, but he stays in bed the entire week after you're gone anyway, barely registering Persephone's embrace, Melinoe's offerings of water and soup, or Makaria's company.
He only rouses from bed when he realizes he sent you off without any food, he makes your favorites, packs them neatly in stacks of four in a canvas bag and wraps them in two pieces of checker print cloth tied at the top. He can't leave the Underworld, so he sent his best man to deliver them to you, a Cyclops who was good at paperwork and organization.
"I delivered it to the penthouse boss, but don't send me back, they're terrifying," he says with a shiver.
He finds himself smiling, being fearsome is it's own advtange.
He watches you through the eyes of ravens and moths, through the billowy curtains of your penthouse in Manhattan and the windows in your expensive private school next to Central Park that your father liquidates a diamond every month to afford tuition for. He watches you laugh, and make friends, and (unfortunately) develop a very deep soda addiction (heâll lecture Zagreus when he sees him again).
And youâre six years old, on your way to school when he sees the best pomegranate finally ripen in the garden. He picks it with care, polishing it four times before whistling for Cereberus.
âCould you make a trip for me?â
Itâs the greatest mistake of his life, because now Cerberus is at his heels all day, begging for another command to bring you a gift. He looks through the eyes of bird, watching you sit on the kitchen counter cutting a pomegranate, his pomegranate, in half. Smiling as you take a bite of the sweet fruit.
"Their knifework needs help," he mumbles to himself, but his mouth is wobbly and his eyes are warm.
Makaria comes by, asking for money for her tuition fees for NYU, ten years and still no degree. He sighs, he would have paid it anyway, but he might as well get something out of it.
"Deliver this." He hands her a black business card, he only ordered ten cards a millennium ago, and he's only ever handed out two of them. This will be the third. Makaria quirks an eyebrow up, and he shrugs. She wouldnât understand. "And take Cerberus with you, he's been depressed for weeks now."
He's beside himself with anticipation for when you'll call to meet him. A day goes by, then two, then a week, and as he counts the days he realizes it's been a month. He knows you don't remember him, maybe just the feeling of being held, at best. He knows you mean more to him than what he means to you.
But knowing and hoping are two different things.
He finds himself preoccupying his endless amount of time with work, with balancing the accounts and collecting feedback from the shades, inspecting the areas of his realm. He's trimming the pomegranate tree in the garden when he feels it, a tremor, a calling.
Grabbing whatever he can get his hands on, a pomegrante, a red cloak, jewels, and tweleve years worth of birthday money he's been collecting in a silk pouch.
The first time he sees you in person after eleven years, you're on the ground, your legs tucked underneath your body, golden ichor splashed across your hands, staining the flimsy cotton fabric of your shirt, a glimmer smeared across your cheek.
But your eyes, your eyes haven't changed. You look directly into his eyes, just like when you were no more than two months old and he'd whisper secrets and sweet nothings to you.
His baby. His godling. His child.
And the sight of you alone makes him want to weep, the thought that this is what's been kept from him all these years.
"Will you help me?" Your voice cracks in the middle, tears budding at the corners of your eyes.
He would burn all of Olympus down if you asked.
