I hold my breath—Hecate has actually discovered world‑travel magic! The fact that she managed to break through (or bypass) the world barriers is astounding. At last, I can take the vacation I deserve after all the nonsense in the mortal realm and the endless drudgery here in the Underworld. I fire off a reply:
Hades: All right, makes sense why you need help. How long until the magic is ready?
She answers: about three hours for the ritual and the materials. I promise to arrive in exactly three hours, then stride back into my chambers.
Black silk sheets drape my king‑size bed; ebony marble covers the floor and walls; weapons that radiate divinity and death hang in neat rows; the mounted heads of rare monsters line the hall; and, in the corner, my helmet rests upon its pedestal, sealed with magic that only Persephone and I can bypass. The fresh scent of spring—my wife's presence—mingles with colored fairy‑lights she strung up, all bright hues except the occasional deep blue (my contribution). A good woman makes a home feel safe against the world, they say. Before leaving, I summon the one soul I trust to run things smoothly.
Hades:"Alfred, attend me."
A tall, skeletal man—six feet even—steps through a swirling portal of darkness fringed with purple. Azure flames burn in his eye sockets, a dignified mustache adorns his skull, and he wears a butler's uniform of impeccable undead couture. He bows.
Alfred:"How may I assist you, Lord Hades?"
I meet the gaze of one of my few true friends.
Hades:"I'm going on vacation for a year or two with Hecate. Anything that needs my immediate attention?"
A flicker of shock, then joy, lights Alfred's eyes.
"I'm delighted you're taking care of yourself, my lord. Overwork has claimed many—"
My eye twitches. A god of death, felled by overtime? I refuse to engage in that quip‑war, so I ignore him. He conjures a black tablet from blue flames.
Alfred (muttering):"Password… butlersgetallthebitches …"
My eye twitches again—last time it was deathbysnúsnú; before that, people die when they are killed. I silently blame Persephone for teaching him modern tech.
Alfred:"Underworld productivity is up 30 %. Judges are on schedule."
Hades:"Reason for the spike?"
Alfred:"A surge in Japanese suicides. Lady Persephone convinced Izanami to send us several thousand souls; they're… overzealous workers."
Apparently our work–un‑life balance beats Japan's. Hot springs, free internet, and optional reincarnation as long it not Japanese or south Korea rebirth will do that.
He continues: Percy Jackson is off on another quest, Persephone is with Demeter, the devils want to renegotiate their land contract, Dionysus wants to seal slivers of Kronos in a wine cup (again), and Athena has sent—Alfred checks—letter #426.
Hades:"Tell Persephone I'm away; extra springtime won't hurt. Refuse the devils unless a true Lucifer descendant appears. Tell Dionysus no. And burn Athena's letters—ashes to Tartarus."
Alfred notes it all, then asks what to pack. I dictate: nectar, Stygian‑iron weapons, healing potions, a space‑expanded camping kit, unread books, three enchanted journals, clothes, toiletries—the works. Alfred salutes and vanishes.
II — One Hour Later
I browse DevilNet headlines:
"Serafall's Love–Hate Relationship with Gabriel: Secret Lovers?!""Not a True Devil Unless You're Bael!""Visiting Greece? Bring a Divine Chastity Belt!"
A portal opens. Alfred strides in carrying a bag that looks ordinary but, of course, holds enough for a modest house.
I inspect the contents: clothing, three magical toothbrushes, space‑folding tent, four books (modern history, new dark‑magic spells, The Art of the Deal, and Odin's Guide to Being a Man of Culture), three journals, sword, staff, throwable shield, lesser helm, a clairvoyant mirror, gallons of nectar, potions—and a box of condoms.
Hades (deadpan):"Why… these?"
Alfred (bland):"My lord, you are a Greek god."
I fling them aside.
"I'm nothing like my siblings."
Alfred pockets them again.
"Better safe than another… incident, sir."
We do not speak of that incident.
He briefs me on my… misguided son's current penance—cleaning every Jewish monument fifty times, eternal charity work, then Tartarus until 2035. Good. I order the tale to spread as rumor for mortals, and publish on devil net: no favoritism in this house.
Hades:"All set?"
Alfred:"Yes, sir. One suggestion: inform Lady Persephone yourself , you know sad she gets once you leave for a while, and perhaps warn Lords Zeus and Poseidon so they don't panic."
I nod. He grins a bit too widely.
Hades:"Lockdown engages the moment I leave. No one dies in here again, Alfred. Backup Hades Protocol on."
He bows. I shroud myself in blue fire and shadow, bound for Hecate's realm.
Alfred's POV
As the smoke trail vanishes, I call after him:
Alfred:"Don't worry, my lord—I'll bury the bodies this time before you return!"
The smoke swerves faster. Ah, how touching.
As the divine smoke from Lord Hades fades into the distance, I relax into the black velvet sofa in my personal quarters, letting the lockdown seals hum quietly throughout the palace. With a flick of my bony fingers, I pull up DevilNet on my tablet.
"Serafall's Love–Hate Relationship with Gabriel Confirmed—Secret Lovers or PR Stunt?!""You're Not a Real Devil Unless You're Bael!""Visiting Greece? Bring a Divine Chastity Belt—Now With 3-Layer Ward Protection!""10-Step Guide to Making Angels Fall (Into Your Bed)""Fallen Angels Expand Amazon Business: New Sacred Gear Delivery Drone Now Active in Five Realms!"
Ah, yes. The last headline. The Fallen Angels, as usual, are adapting faster than anyone else. Innovation born of desperation. After the Great War and their dwindling numbers, Azazel turned their survival into a business model.
They've cornered niche markets with their version of Amazon—a global network built on sacred-gear-enhanced logistics. Their drones can deliver to almost any dimension: Olympus, Midgard, even bits of Helheim if you pay enough. Sacred Gear enhancement kits, black-market grimoires, stylish lingerie with built-in minor enchantments… There's a reason it's profitable.
"He may be a pervert," I say aloud to myself, "but Azazel knows how to pivot."
Still, even with all their tech and charm, the Fallen are only thriving because Lord Hades allows them to.
"Excellent. Time to invite a few friends for a modest farewell gathering. Strictly respectful, of course."
I glance at Athena's latest letter:
Alfred sighs as he opens the latest of the 426 letters from the goddess of wisdom. He smooths the papyrus-textured scroll, unrolling it with practiced hands. A familiar scent—lavender and parchment—rises from the page. Written in immaculate script, it reads:
Dear Uncle Hades,
I hope this letter finds you in good health—and, knowing you, surrounded by mild existential dread, a goblet of wine, and some soul-judging paperwork. Once again, I wish to express my deepest gratitude for what you did during the Typhon incident.
When you shielded me from his fire blast, without hesitation, knowing I would have survived… but also knowing I would be crippled, you didn't hesitate. No speeches. No grandstanding. Just... acted. Like a real hero.
That moment—unlike the tales of glory we immortalize—was quiet. Personal. Real.
And I haven't stopped thinking about it.
I'm not writing as the Goddess of Wisdom today. I'm not writing as the Strategist of Olympus or the Daughter of Zeus.
I'm just writing as Athena, a woman who once thought she had no need for affection or companionship beyond books, wisdom, and battlefields.
But… perhaps there's more.
I know we come from a pantheon infamous for familial... tangles. I'm aware of how complicated such feelings are. Yet, I've observed the world—humans, demigods, even devils—growing and forming bonds in unexpected ways.
Maybe this is my own attempt to do the same.
I propose something modest:
A visit to Paris.
A picnic by the Eiffel Tower.
I'll cook. Yes, me. (I've been perfecting lamb stew with pomegranate glaze.)
Then a walk through the Musée Rodin, or perhaps the I Love You Wall—I've read it helps mortals speak honestly.
I don't expect anything, Uncle. Just… consider it.
You've done so much for others. Maybe, just once, let someone do something for you.
With care (and a little hope),Athena
P.S. I found one of Persephone's spring scarves in my temple garden last week. I had it cleaned and sent back through Hermes. I hope she's well.
Alfred lowers the letter slowly. His skeletal jaw tightens.
"Damn," he mutters. "She's really down bad."
He can't help but imagine the scene: Zeus storming the halls of Olympus, lightning cracking overhead, screaming, "MY DAUGHTER WANTS TO DATE WHO!?" Meanwhile, Hades would probably be sipping wine behind a divine barrier, completely ignoring him.
"And she cooked," Alfred mumbles, placing a hand over his skeletal ribcage as if clutching a heart. "That's real."
He pauses. Then sighs. Duty calls.
He types his response to Athena on his infernal tablet, attaching the usual Dark Souls "You Died" meme as rejection letter #426 is incinerated and its ashes sprinkled into the Tartarus pit.
"For Olympus' sake, I hope she gives up soon… or Hades actually notices.
I rise and make my way to the Hades Protocol Chamber—a deep vault beneath the palace few beings have ever seen. In the center stands a large obsidian pod, glowing with violet sigils. Inside rests a life-sized replica of Lord Hades a skeleton version of him fading blue flame eyes, powered by 30% of his real strength.
Only 30%, and yet that amount places the replica in the top 10 most powerful beings in existence.
I marvel silently, adjusting the replica's settings to "I-Will-End-You" mode—a favorite. With just a flicker of divine aura, the air around me stiffens, gravity shifts, and my skeletal bones creak in protest. Even restrained, the power coiled in that form could level a divine city.
"If the world knew what he truly was…"
They don't. They can't. Lord Hades hides it deliberately.
He isn't just the God of the Dead. He is the balance point—between divine order and chaos, between punishment and mercy, between memory and oblivion. He holds command over souls, death, law, and secrets older than Olympus itself. Even the other gods forget that Hades was never just a child of Kronos. He was Kronos' successor in more than title—he's the heir to inevitability.
If beings like Zeus or Odin understood just how far beneath him they truly are?
Zeus would wet himself and try to bribe Hades with a lightning-powered barbecue grill.
Poseidon might behave—though only for a week.
Aphrodite would throw herself at him with even more desperation.
Ares would challenge him... and immediately regret it.
Athena would go from writing love letters to crafting protective war wards around Hades to keep other vixens away.
Even other pantheons—Hindu, Egyptian, Norse—would stop treating the Greek Pantheon like second-string drama kings and give them the respect they've long abandoned.
"Alas," I sigh, "he just wants peace. A quiet life. Some wine. Time with Lady Persephone."
But he can't escape what he is. He may walk softly, but he could scream once and silence worlds.
"And yet… he still throws away divine condoms like he's mortal."
I glance back at the replica, now fully powered and standing tall with crossed arms, wearing his "you dare breathe in my direction?" expression.
"It's showtime."