🔞 The Right Hand of Hades

PART I

The pity in knowing the past is suffering the future; that is what most would say about those who have had to make great sacrifices. For the burden of memories can almost break the strongest, but what happens when you know you have lost something, but can not remember what?

That torment might possibly be enough to drive one crazy.

SOMETHING LOST

Quintus Hyperion strode down the narrow, dirt paths, flanked by the delicate, young olive trees that swayed gently in the breeze. Each tree stood as a testament to renewal, their leaves shimmering in the afternoon light. In the distance, the skeletal remnants of towering skyscrapers that were once the city of Cairo jutted out against the horizon, their shattered glass and crumbling concrete a stark reminder of a once-vibrant metropolis. The city, now a ghost of its former self, lay in disarray, its streets eerily silent. The desolation was a haunting echo of a civilization that had thrived, now reduced to ruins after Zeus’s last reset of humanity— or mass genocide, depending on your point of view. Only a few such cities remained, grappling with the task of recovery amidst the rubble of their past advances.

Quinn’s dark eyes narrowed as he spotted the person he needed to speak with. Areia Cyprian, daughter of Aphrodite and an unknown human, stood across the dusty road, her blond hair tied up, catching the light, and slightly messy. Despite knowing her for years, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach, he knew to be fear of getting the same answer the last time he asked this question.

Areia was someone Quinn had always found irritating. Even during their time at the academy and childhood, he had never enjoyed engaging with her but suffered her so that he could be near Melinoë. Yet here he was, once again, needing to ask her the same question he had posed every few months. It was a routine he had grown accustomed to, though never comfortable with, and the question itself carried a weight only Quinn seemed to be affected by. He slowed his steps as she stood up, moving to the next tree. Quinn hesitated, torn between his need to ask and his pride. Humbling himself was never easy, especially not with someone like Areia. He knew she would see through any facade he attempted to put up—she always did. Her perceptive nature was both a blessing and a curse, leaving him feeling exposed in a way that wounded his ego.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself, and as he stepped forward, her body tensed to his presence. “I know why you are here, but I still have no contact with Melinoë. I want you to find her as well,” the tall blonde said as she knelt beside the newly planted tree, her brows pinching in concern, doing her best to avoid eye contact with Quinn. With a graceful swirl of her fingers, a shimmering ring of water began to unfurl around the trunk, glinting in the sunlight before it sank into the soil below. “Her mother won’t even talk to me about it. I hate to say it, but it’s possible she is dead, and Hades wants to hide that he lost another child to this war,” Areia said, and Quintus’s body tensed at the woman’s callous words about her best friend. In his mind, Melinoë couldn’t be dead; Hades and Persephone could just be hiding their child’s whereabouts from the world, which is how he rationalized Areia’s answer.

“She isn’t dead. I would know,” Quintus snapped, and the woman turned to look at him with a smug grin. Her blue eyes scanned his tall, rigid body, curiosity dancing in her gaze.

“And how would you know?” Areia crooned as she stood at her full height, still six inches less than him. She was very tall for a woman: all legs, soft, lean curves, and a subpar attitude. “Your mother send you on a mission to bring back her little sacrifice? Which brother gets Melinoë now?” She taunted him, and he reached out, grabbing her neck, her eyes staring at the rage on his beautiful face. His black hair spilled over his eyebrows, making him look more menacing. The past trauma of when he broke her wrist triggered her, causing her body to ache as she wished to get out of his grasp.

“You know nothing,” he snarled, his large body looming over hers, and she smoothed her hand over his that grabbed her neck before fluttering her eyes.

“Quinn, maybe be nice for old times’ sake,” she purred, making regret and disgust roll him. “I have a few minutes before Persephone comes to inspect my work,” Areia whispered, her tone filled with sexual meaning, and he glared at her in revulsion.

“You haven’t changed a bit, unfortunate,” he cursed, letting her go roughly, pushing her away from him.

“Neither have you,” she shot back, her hand rubbing her neck instinctively where his grip had been too tight.

Suddenly, a warmth heated the grove of trees, and they both turned to the feeling. Persephone appeared five yards away, her crown covered in a black veil that dragged on the ground. “See, she is in mourning. Is it even worth asking if her daughter is dead?” Areia whispered, pain in her voice that her own best friend might be dead. Quinn’s hand instinctively moved to his chest; a profound feeling of loss enveloped him, casting a shadow over his heart.

“I shouldn’t have come here.” His broken whisper was enough to make Areia pity him for unknown reasons, like a memory should have appeared to explain why she felt this way...but nothing came.

He stepped back, feeling the Queen of the underworld’s eyes burning into him even though her face was hidden behind the dark shroud. He vanished into a swirling black mist, transporting him back to his work-appointed quarters on the fourth level of the Olympus hall above the archives where he worked. The room was small, with light wood paneling that gave it a dirty, unkempt feel as it was covered in scuff marks from him kicking his boots off many times before. The shelves were stacked and spilling over with books of all shapes and sizes, their pages worn and unloved. Dark bottles of potions line the shelves, their contents to help him sleep and forget. The room was disorganized, with papers strewn about the desk and dusty floor, with an overturned chair and soiled clothes adding to the chaos. His room was as much of a mess as he was.

On his bedside table, a solitary bowl of oranges stood out, surrounded by a heap of peels, some of which had fallen to the floor after being accidentally knocked over. Additionally, a small potions table was positioned beneath the sole window, where a cauldron simmered, brewing his next batch of antidepressants, filling the air with a metallic rust scent.

Quinn slumped to the floor, his head in his hands, and for the first time in years, he was beginning to believe the woman he was desperate to find was dead.