That was it.
When I left the mortal plane, I vowed to stay gone for as long as it took for my hate to subside. The purple of my revulsion, the ruby of my fury, the gory urge to murder every man, woman, and child who walked the earth, would either fade with time, or it wouldn’t.
There was only one way to find out.
One hundred earthly years went by in the timelessness of Hell.
On the hundred and first year, I told Izi that if she brought up Shala again, I would rip her tongue from her mouth.
Days and nights were a blur of violence and indifference, hate and pain, emptiness and sorrow. I mourned, I seethed, I became a hardened tyrant for a decade, a cruel dictator for another, and finally, a cold, distant remnant of the prince my kingdom had once known and loved.
I’d had a human once.
She had brought me unspeakable joy. She had shown me depths and flavors and curiosities of emotions and experiences that I’d never known. I felt tenderness and want and curiosity and hope in a new and perfect way. I’d thoroughly savored every second together, until I’d encountered the hubris that came from believing I’d had it all.
I’d touched mortality. I’d brushed humanity. I’d nearly understood the frayed corners of an emotion, a feeling, a verb, a complicated four-letter-word that was practically an abomination on my tongue, so I held it in.
My human was gone.
Two hundred years, and I could take ambassador meetings topside once more.
I visited her grave site on the two hundred and sixty-sixth anniversary of her death to see if there was any trace, any remnants of her pearly soul, but regretted my fool’s errand instantly. I had only painful memories where once she had lain. She’d done unspeakable damage to me by showing how full my life could be with her in it. And as much as I wanted to forget her, I knew I’d never be able to return to the life I’d once known.
Three hundred years, and I’d nearly begun to smile again.
Four hundred years, and the court could count on me to keep my level head once more.
Five hundred years, and I’d stopped saying her name before I fell asleep.
She’d changed me.
For better or for worse, I couldn’t know.
Chapter Four
332 BCE
The rich bouquet of free-flowing wine, the firm squeeze of a supple hip perched on your lap with soft breasts pressed into your shoulder, the rise and fall of music and laughter; the Hellenic pantheon knew how to throw a party.
Hell’s Royal Court, nearly a third of its Infernal Court, and at least a few members from the Court of Nightmares, including Izi and her mother, the First Succubus, were in attendance.
Bacchus kept the wine flowing. Between Demeter’s wheat, barley, olives and grapes, and Artemis’s hunt, from common animals like boar and antelope, to something roasting on a spit that I was fairly certain was a leopard, there was a cornucopia of succulent dishes. Aphrodite was living art, and an honor to be around.
I drained my goblet and smiled as one of Bacchus’s shapely Maenads refilled it. I guess, Bacchus, Bacchos, Β?κχος—were linguistically competitive to the neighboring Roman pantheon and its counterpart. A demon told a demon who had blabbered to another demon that a soothsayer had told a soothsayer: we’done day refer to our host as Dionysus on this side of the cultural divide. But today was not that day.
Hades and I picked neighboring seats during the eight-day festivities, if only to toast to misunderstandings of antagonists and the afterlife.
A pink cloud of flowers and hair plopped into his lap as his bride lifted a silver goblet to join the toast. “To misconceptions.”
Hades wrapped his arm around her waist, and she planted a kiss atop his head.
“And to your controversial love story,” I added. When they both hesitated to lift their cups a second time, I amended, “Because fuck what’s written, and fuck what others think. You’re happy, and that’s rare. What a beautiful thing to be so in love that a tale like yours is too complicated to be understood.”
Hades met my toast, but Persephone’s face softened.
“You speak like someone who knows what he’s talking about.”
Five hundred and fifty-five years, and I still flickered when I picked the scab where her memory remained.
