Fear me, Love me

Daddy Hades

Thorn walked up the centre aisle. He was in an old theatre. Faded red seats in neat, cramped rows lined the way but looking closer Thorn realised they were too small – child sized. The red curtains slowly pulled back from the screen, creaking and juddering on their rails. He held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the sudden bright light.

Eyes adjusting, he looked with interest. The bright light revealed the dust dancing in the air between him and the wrinkled screen. His fingers flexed as he recognised the child being shown on the screen. It was himself. 

Large, innocent eyes, looked up at the night sky. He was sat on the window ledge, his bare legs dangling- enjoying the cool air. Suddenly the boy stiffened – his body tensing with excitement. He'd seen it – a shadow pass over the stars. The heavens briefly obscured by a cloak of pure night and Thorn knew the wearer of that cloak.

A dry cackle interrupted Thorn's viewing and he turned to witness Murias' entrance. This Warden that now occupied the Grim Reapers throne was a ghastly sight. His mouth was a mess, the bloodless flesh in torn ribbons that dangled down like a tentacle beard. His wings scraped across the ground, poorly supported by hunched shoulders.

"A son of Hades – here in my kingdom." He slobbered as he spoke, his tongue running riot in an unshackled mouth. "I'm honoured."

Whispers danced around the walls – souls at rest awakening at his presence. Thorn sent soothing song down the bond between him and dead. Not yet, don't wake yet. He could feel the increase in his power, he was stronger here - it was the perfect realm for a necromancer. But this Warden was right – it was his kingdom. Thorn had sense to try patience. He would wait and learn – learn just how powerful the Warden was and what he'd done to the rightful Reaper.

"It was such a tragedy," Murias struggled with the word – lacking the ability to enunciate clearly with his distorted mouth. "The war." Thorn's gaze remained cool and impassive. He suspected that the Warden was trying to rattle him – to expose weakness. The war for the underworld that had seen Hades condemned to chains and a Lord Mishael take his place was not Thorn's weakness. His relationship with his father had soured long before Cerberus' fall.

"It altered everything. Even touched this realm. So much death created a new tower – my favourite tower." 

Thorn assented to following the Warden out of the Little People's Theatre. Murias led him up a spiral staircase of worn steps. Thorn let his fingers brush against the stone and the rough pads of his fingertips scorched the wall, the hot sting causing his blood to sing. Murias brought Thorn out onto a large balcony and the necromancer was able to look out at the forest of towers that surrounded them.

The black towers rippled, their surfaces in constant movement and if looked at closely, flowing with colour. Like puddles of oil. Murias pointed out a tower. The Phlegethon Barad – named for the underworlds river of fire on whose banks the final stand was fought. Thorn had very little interest in that tower – none he knew were confined in it. 

But his gaze was pulled by tower to his left. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the souls trapped within. The Dandelion Barad – created by Wabyt's cull of the human population. Named for the weeds now growing over the mass graves. Thorn's expression remained unreadable but his mind was buzzing. This was the tower he'd use. The occupants had not long been dead – they'd animate quicker – and they were slaughtered unjustly. Their anger would set the Empty Edge ablaze. "How long will you be visiting?" 

Thorn wondered how common it was for the sons of ancient gods to do a tour of the Empty Edge. Murias appeared to feel no suspicions regarding him.

Unwatched by anyone, the screen in the theatre continued to play. Now it showed little Thorn being picked up into the air by his father. His large eyes were bright with happiness as the Lord of the Underworld spun him around with ease. Hades paused, hearing sound behind him and turned, cradling the youngster to his chest, to face a stern faced woman. She held the gun in a steady hand, her eyes (caramel brown like Thorn's) were fierce. Hades' lips pulled up into an appreciative smirk.