Hadeia

The time had come.

I couldn’t get up from my bed. I just lay there, looking at the high, dark ceiling where Hypnos had respectfully scattered deep slumbers that sparkled like sugar. I thought I should open my mouth, but my body had long since escaped my will. 

From my fingertips, from my toes, pain consumed me along with heat. It felt like a giant snake slowly wrapping around me and swallowing me whole. 

I glared at the silver bell hanging from the bedpost. I needed to reach out and touch it. Ah, but just thinking about moving my body made my head feel stuffed with porridge, suffocating me.

I finally gave up. Everyone would know anyway if I didn’t appear on time.

This fever was another crown I had gained as ruler of the Underworld. It was virtually the only tool I had to gauge the passage of time in the sunless Underworld. 

Each bout was more painful than the last, a punishment with no cure or hope, at least as long as I resided in the Underworld.

Momus, true to his nature as the god of criticism, always insisted that I should formally object to Zeus. He claimed I was sick because Zeus had pushed a properly born, vibrantly living goddess into the land of death, into the Underworld filled with poison and jealousy. 

Therefore, he should either order that self-important healing god Apollo to treat me, or give me periodic rest so the darkness accumulated in my body could be diluted.

I had never seen so many gods agree with Momus. My loyal servants. I knew there was logic in their words. But I would never reveal my condition to Zeus. I knew exactly how he would react and what solution he would propose.

He would never show mercy by allowing me to come up to the surface to recover light, warmth, and vitality. The mask of Hades he had placed on me was as important as it was heavy, and there was no god anywhere who could temporarily take the place of Death. 

None of my siblings would dare undertake such a task. How then could these young ones, mere nephews and nieces, possibly cure me? 

The very idea of the god of death receiving medical treatment was practically a joke. It was a ridiculous contradiction, just like me being a living death.

Death must not leave its post. It would turn the world into hell.

I swallowed my groans and slowly curled up. During this period, I forgot even the fact that I was a god. Humans believe we neither age nor fall ill nor die. 

But now, I was imperfect, suffering from fever. I had to endure endless pain alone. 

Wondering what difference there was between me and sinners burning eternally in hell, I simply wished for this time to pass. That was all I could do. 

Perhaps the god of death, the ruler of the Underworld, wasn’t much after all. At times like this, I felt like I had returned to being an infant swallowed by my father.

‘Why did I forget?’

There are signs before the fever strikes. Not because I’m an omniscient god. Just as old people predict weather by the taste of dawn air, or deer sense a forest fire a hundred miles away and flee, the repeated pain of life and death grants the sufferer a strange foresight. 

In my case, headaches and fatigue were the warning signs. These were physical symptoms, completely different from the mental exhaustion caused by excessive work or endless governance.

‘The symptoms wouldn’t suddenly change. I must have overlooked something trivial. But what wind blew that made me fail to notice?’

Since falling ill means being bedridden for seven or fifteen days, it puts considerable strain on the Underworld’s affairs. That’s why I used to be more sensitive, thoroughly identifying signs of fever with the same diligence humans use to predict and prepare for a good harvest. 

During my absence, I had to arrange which tasks to distribute to my servants, who to assign what duties, and what policies to implement. The Underworld never rests.

Since contracting this illness, I had never once missed the signs of its approach. But now.

‘Ah, for heaven’s sake. It’s because of that troublemaker.’

Behind my throbbing eyelids appeared a golden head of hair, irritatingly full of vitality. That stubborn child who knew no surrender, the golden disaster I had summoned with my own hands. I laughed, almost like a groan.

‘All this time I thought my exhaustion was entirely due to him. Even when my head hurt, I blamed it on his mischief. I completely forgot about the fever.’

I had been so focused on Persephius that I couldn’t properly take care of myself. With this behavior, I couldn’t even deny the rumors that I was distracted by a young bridegroom. But he had been causing all sorts of problems with a passion and drive rarely seen in the Underworld. 

Most were disturbances I could overlook, but his attempt to leave my palace was quite troublesome. I even had to wound poor Cerberus to rescue him in one piece. 

My complacency was to blame, thinking he would surrender if he was starved. He was completely different from us who have lived too long to burn with any passion.

In the end, perhaps all of this was my mistake. Perhaps, as Thanatos suggested, it would have been wiser to confine him or use Hypnos’s power to keep him quietly subdued. 

Allowing a living young man with hot blood, Demeter’s son, to roam freely around the Underworld palace. And now I was even disobeying my own orders by giving him food. 

At this rate, that reckless boy would stubbornly stay for a thousand years.

‘Does he hate his mother’s embrace that much?’

Since I don’t remember my mother’s embrace, I can’t understand why Persephius refuses to return so adamantly. The Demeter I knew was a goddess with clear principles and unbreakable will, but also generosity. 

Her responsibility for earth and grain seemed as natural as Hestia’s charge over the hearth fire. But Demeter as a sister and Demeter as a mother wouldn’t be the same. Just as Hades and I are different. 

Therefore, I’m in no position to lecture Persephius. More precisely, I can’t urge him to return by talking about a mother’s love or sorrow. Nor do I want to. It would feel foolish, like scolding my own reflection in a mirror.

I recall his bewildered appearance when he first arrived in the Underworld. I think of his handsome face lighting up like a lamp in the middle of the night when he realized where he was. 

His golden hair framed his milky face like a wreath, and he stood there with large eyes unable to hide his trembling and exhilaration. No one who had ever set foot in the Underworld had been so happy.

Yes, he must be happy. No longer called Kore, no longer needing to hide who he truly is behind long peplos veils. He can go around in the appearance he wants and call himself by the name he desires.

It must be heart-poundingly exciting. Every breath in and out must be unbearably joyful and satisfying. 

Like a wolf released from its cage, like a deer escaped from a trap, he must be gritting his teeth, never wanting to return to how things were before, wanting to run further and further away.

Perhaps I feel a strange sense of liberation seeing him like that. He is young and can do anything. But I have been Hades for too long to discard my name, and now I feel uncomfortable anywhere but the Underworld. 

Even if, as Momus says, I raised objections to Zeus, and even if by his whim he granted me time off, I would have nowhere to go. That’s why I endure this fever alone and silently in my chamber.

‘If only… he would behave himself. What accidents might he cause when I’m not visible? I hope Thanatos is watching him well…’

Due to my sudden illness, Thanatos will have his hands full. Far from monitoring Persephius, he’ll be busy dealing with the flood of work while groaning in pain. Then who will keep an eye on that boy? 

I think he won’t do anything reckless for a while after his encounter with Cerberus, but… there were too many uncertainties.

I sigh. My breathing became rapid like an antelope sinking into a swamp. My entire body felt hot, thrown into Phlegethon. I surrendered my body to the familiar yet never comfortable pain.

In my hazy state, like sinking underwater, I heard a faint knocking sound. Someone was knocking on the door of my chamber. Only then did I lose consciousness with relief.

Even in that state, I thought of Persephius. Hoping, please, that he wouldn’t do anything foolish.