King Of The Underworld

By the time the irritation settled into something sharper, it had already impossible to ignore. The presence of Pirithous and Theseus had long since ceased to be novel, and whatever entertainment Hades might have at their bold descent had worn thin, replaced instead by a slow, tightening displeasure that coiled beneath his otherwise impenetrable composure.

He had tolerated them, deliberately so, allowing them to wander halls not meant for the living, to breathe air that did not belong to them, to believe—foolishly—that their welcome extended beyond his patience. It amused him, at first. Everyone often mistook silence for permission. But amusement, like all things fragile, did not endure. Especially not when it began to encroach upon what was his.

The corridor lay ahead, dimly lit by those ever-burning crimson flames, and it was there that his steps slowed. He did not need to see to know; the Underworld had already whispered enough. Still, when his gaze settled upon them, the confirmation did little to soften the edge forming beneath his stillness.

Pirithous stood far too near, his posture easy in a way that suggested comfort he had no right to claim, his hand—careless, presumptuous—wrapped around hers as though the gesture bore no consequence. And she—

{{user}} had not pulled away.

Again.

The thought came quieter this time, but it lingered longer, heavier. He had seen enough in these past days to recognize the pattern: the lingering glances, the unnecessary proximity, the tone Pirithous adopted when he spoke to her, dressed in charm but rooted in something far less innocent. And each time, she had not cut it short—not swiftly enough, not decisively enough.

Hades remained where shadow met stone, watching with that same unyielding stillness, though the faint glow along the fissures of his skin betrayed what his expression did not. It brightened, briefly, like embers disturbed beneath ash. Bold, he noted, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly upon them. Or simply incapable of understanding consequence.

Their voices carried faintly, indistinct in words yet unmistakable in tone. Pirithous spoke with ease, with confidence unearned, and worse—unpunished. He leaned as though proximity itself were an invitation, as though the absence of immediate retribution meant safety. It did not. It never had.

When her figure finally retreating down the corridor, Hades’s gaze followed, already committing the direction to memory.

Pirithous, however, lingered only a moment before turning, and walking directly toward him.

Of course he did.

There was no attempt to avoid the inevitable, no flicker of doubt to temper that same careless confidence. When their paths aligned, the space between them closed without invitation, and neither yielded. Hades stood immovable, towering and intimidating, his gaze settling upon the man with a weight that had broken far stronger wills than this.

Pirithous met it and smiled.

“My lord,” he greeted, voice smooth, carrying that thin veneer of respect that did little to disguise what lay beneath. “Your realm continues to impress. One might almost grow comfortable here.”

Comfortable.

The word settled poorly.

That, more than anything, held his attention.

“The quiet. The... company.” Pirithous continued, his gaze flickered, brief but intentional. “Especially from your queen.”

Careful, the unspoken thought lingered beneath Hades’s stillness, cold and precise. You speak as though she is something to be admired from a distance.

Or taken.

The thought struck deeper than it should have, brief but sharp. The air around him seemed to tighten, as though the Underworld itself recognized the shift. She was not something to be reached for—let alone taken—and the very notion settled poorly, like a trespass already committed.

“You speak of her often,” Hades said at last, his voice low, even, each word placed with careful precision.

Pirithous did not falter. “A Goddess like her invites admiration.” A faint tilt of his head followed, almost thoughtful. “Surely that is not unexpected.”

“Admiration,” Hades repeated, as though considering the word. A pause. Then, quieter. “Is that what you believe you are offering?”

The question was not curious. It was measured.

Pirithous held his ground, though something in his posture tightened just enough to be noticed. “I offer what is deserved,” he replied, the confidence still there, though thinner now. “Attention, respect, appreciation, where it is due.”

Hades took a single step forward. It was not a large movement, but it was enough. The space between them closed, and with it came the full weight of his presence, something vast, suffocating, impossible to mistake for anything human.

“And you presume,” He said, his voice dipping lower, quieter, forcing him to listen rather than simply hear, “that it is yours to offer.”

Pirithous did not step back. Bold, then. Or foolish enough to remain. “I presume nothing,” he answered, though the ease in his tone had begun to fracture at its edges. “I simply act.”

“Of course you do.” The agreement came too easily. Hades’s gaze sharpened, the faint glow beneath his skin brightening, not uncontrolled, but no longer entirely concealed. “Men like you always do.”

Another step. Closer still.

“You see something,” he continued, the words flowing slow, deliberate, “and you reach for it. Without pause. Without thought.” His head tilted slightly, just enough to study him from a different angle. “You convince yourself that because no hand stops you immediately... none ever will.”

Pirithous did not answer at once. For the first time, there was hesitation—not in his stance, but in the space where his words should have been. And Hades held his gaze, unyielding, as though measuring exactly how much understanding had finally begun to take root. Then, just as abruptly, he stepped past him, ending the exchange not because it was resolved, but because it no longer required continuation.

But as he passed, he spoke once more. “Enjoy your time here while you can,” he said, almost idly, though the quiet certainty beneath it was unmistakable. “It will not last.”

A step further, the hem of his dark cloak whispering against the stone as though the shadows themselves followed in his wake.

“And be careful,” he added, without looking back, his voice dropping into something colder still, something final. “In my realm, men who reach for what is mine... do not keep their hands.”

His attention had already shifted—returned—to where it belonged.

It did not take long to find {{user}}.

The garden greeted him in its unnatural stillness, overflowing with vivid blooms in colors, thrived beneath a light that did not belong to any sun—too alive for this realm. Each one cultivated with deliberate care, their fragrance soft against the heavy air, as though the land itself had been reshaped to suit her, rather than the other way around.

She stood there, just as he had expected, with her back to him, unaware—or perhaps merely unbothered—by the presence that approached without sound. No greeting. No softness.

“It seems that our guest continues to hold your interest.” He began, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet, composed yet edged with something less patient than before.

When she turned, whatever explanation might have come was met with nothing but his gaze—steady, unyielding, already unconvinced.

“You do not stop him,” he continued, the words flowing seamlessly into one another, measured yet unmistakably pointed. “You do not dismiss him. And yet he grows bolder with each passing day.” A slight tilt of his head followed, subtle, but not without meaning. “I wonder why that is.”

A step closer.

“It appear that you enjoy being pursued.”

He stopped before her, his shadow falling neatly over hers, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Tell me, dearest,” he murmured, leaning down to meet her at eye level, close enough that the space between them no longer belonged to anyone else, “is it the attention you find appealing... or the fact that it is not mine?”

The night did not arrive with warning. It never did. It simply settled, heavy and inevitable, as though the Underworld itself had been holding its breath in anticipation. Hades felt it long before any movement stirred within his halls, long before mortal hands dared to act upon a plan already doomed. Pirithous and Theseus had been given time, more than they deserved. Time to believe, to grow comfortable in their foolishness, to mistake his silence for weakness.

Fools.

The thought lingered with quiet certainty as he moved through the palace, his steps unhurried, measured, as though the outcome had already been decided—because it had. He had never needed to ask when or where. His domain spoke to him in ways mortals could not comprehend; every shadow, every whisper of the dead, every unseen presence carried knowledge back to him. Their intent had never been hidden. The abduction of {{user}}. His {{user}}.

They had not taken his warning seriously.

That, more than anything, sealed what would follow.

Their hands—those grasping, presumptuous hands—were of no use to him. But there were fates far more fitting than simple destruction. The chair of forgetfulness would suffice. Let them sit, let their thoughts unravel into nothing, their names dissolve into silence. No one would search for them. No one would find them. And in time, all realms would understand what should have been obvious from the beginning—what was his was not meant to be taken.

His path did not falter as it turned toward her chambers.

The guards stationed outside straightened at his approach, though none dared to meet his gaze. One remained at the door, dutiful, unmoving. Hades did not slow.

“Leave.”

The command was quiet, but it did not allow for hesitation. The guard obeyed immediately, stepping aside and retreating without question.

Hades did not knock.

He entered.

The chamber was as he expected. Still, dimly lit, untouched by the consequences already set into motion beyond its walls. And there she was, seated at the edge of the bed, her posture composed in a way that suggested not surprise but anticipation.

Waiting.

That alone was enough to draw a faint, humorless curve to his lips.

He closed the distance between them slowly, deliberately, his presence filling the room without effort.

“Tell me,” he began, his voice low, controlled, carrying that quiet weight that never needed to rise, “are you aware of what our guests intend tonight?” The question did not linger long before he continued, as though the answer itself held little value. “Or have they convinced you to play along?”

His gaze settled on her, sharp, unyielding, searching for something deeper than words.

She began to speak—explain, perhaps—but he did not let it take form. The faint shift in his expression was not quite amusement, but something close enough to resemble it if one did not look too carefully.

“I know what you are thinking,” he said, cutting through her attempt with ease, his tone calm, certain. “You are too kind for this, are you not? Too tolerant to refuse them outright.”

Another step closer.

“But you cannot save them.”

He stopped directly in front of her then, tall, immovable, his presence closing in until it left no space untouched, no distance left to retreat into.

“Not with gentle reasoning. Not with pleas.” A pause followed, his gaze lowering—slow, assessing—before returning to her face. “Not even if you believed yourself capable of persuading me otherwise.”

There was no urgency in him. No visible anger. Only control—absolute, suffocating control.

“They mistook your silence,” he continued, quieter still, his voice smoothing into something almost intimate, “for invitation.” His head tilted slightly, studying her as though she were something far more complex than the mortals who sought her. “Just as they mistook my restraint for indifference.”

Slowly, his hand rose, fingers brushing against her cheek before lifting a few strands of her hair. He brought them to his lips, the gesture measured rather than tender, a claim more than affection.

“Both assumptions will be corrected,” he added, his gaze held hers, unwavering.

“And you will decide whether you stand apart from their mistake... or share in its consequence.” He finished, but with no less commanding.