Page 22 of Hades

His features hardened. “Not Hypnos.”

He wouldn’t believe it even if she said it was true. Hypnos was good. Loyal. Just like Morpheus. He would never turn against Hades or do anything that might harm him or his beloved family.

She shook her head, her sleek black hair brushing alabaster shoulders that were far too bony for his tastes. “Apate, Oizys and Moros.”

“By the gods.” Morpheus sank back against the dais as shock rolled through him. “Nyx must be furious.”

And Hypnos and Thanatos would be wounded, although neither would show it. The twins had too much pride to let anyone see how deeply this betrayal would have affected them.

“She is, but Hades is even more so. The Underworld has grown into a dark, dangerous place since you were last awake. Hades seeks the others involved in this war. He is at Tartarus with Thanatos right now, questioning Eris.” Mnemosyne paused near one of the wall torches that were mounted on the six columns that formed a circle around the dais and stared into the flames, her voice growing distant as she said, “That is why he charged me with this task.”

“What task?” He watched her closely, observing her as she lifted a hand towards the flames and then caught herself at the last second.

She looked at her hand as if she hadn’t realised what she had been doing and then over her shoulder at him. “Persephone is having difficulty sleeping. Hypnos was asked to help, but her mind is too turbulent, so Hades requested I wake you and order you to help his wife slip into a pleasant and deep dream to leave her troubles behind.”

“What sort of dream should I give her?” He was sure Hades would have specific instructions, considering how much of Morpheus’s strength it would take for him to fulfil this task.

Walking in someone else’s dreams cost him nothing, but influencing the mind of another to build a dream for them cost him a lot. It would likely be weeks before he had the strength to sleep and dream again. Which meant they had one shot at this. If the dream chosen wasn’t the right one, it wouldn’t take, and Persephone wouldn’t get the sleep she needed, and he wouldn’t be able to help her again until he had recovered.

Mnemosyne reached into the crimson layers of her robe and produced a small glass vial that was as polished as her irises. “It contains a memory of her past. One she is fond of. If you add your blood to it and mark her skin, she will dream this dream.”

He went to her and took the vial, lifted it before the light and gazed at the small amount of liquid it contained. More than enough if what the goddess of memories said was true. He could make Persephone dream this. He could help Hades and his queen.

Morpheus nodded. “I will return when it is done. I am sure we have much to catch up on.”

Mnemosyne dipped her head.

He looked down at his black chiton, considered donning his armour over the knee-length tunic, and then shrugged it off. He would be safe enough during his travel to the palace, untouchable by anyone who sought to harm him.

Morpheus willed his power and went intangible, as if he was a spectre. Or a dream. He passed through the columns of the temple and then the wall, and sped up from there, swiftly covering the vast distance between his home and the palace. He passed legions of soldiers marching across the land and cut through villages. No one saw him.

The palace finally loomed ahead of him and he remained invisible as he passed the guards protecting it, his focus firmly on finding Persephone and fulfilling his orders.

Morpheus entered the grand building and moved through it, heading upwards to the bedchamber where he would find her. This wasn’t the first time he had been asked to give Persephone a dream, so he knew the way to her room. The other times he had done this, Hades had come to Morpheus, and it had always been during times of strife.

His queen cared much about this realm and her king, enough that any serious danger to it or him weighed on her mind.

As expected, he found Persephone in the elegant black-and-gold room, tucked beneath the obsidian covers of the large bed. Mnemosyne was right. Persephone was restless. She thrashed in her sleep, constantly twisting and turning, and he could feel how turbulent her mind was. This sleep was doing nothing to restore her strength. Nightmares haunted her, robbing her of rest.

Morpheus made himself tangible again, removed the stopper from the vial and pierced the skin of his wrist with one of his short black claws. He waited for a bead of blood to form and then carefully scooped it up and dropped it into the bottle. He placed the stopper back in and turned the vial, mixing the memory and his blood together, and then sat beside Persephone.

He murmured low words to her—ancient words. He no longer recalled their meaning, but he knew their power as it filled the room and slowly took its toll on him, using his strength as their fuel. She slowly began to settle and he opened the vial, pressed his thumb to the top and tipped it, so a drop of liquid coated the pad of his thumb. He placed his thumb on her forehead, marking her with the liquid, and set to work, drawing a glyph that was as ancient as the words he spoke. With each line he added, she settled a little more, and his strength waned too, until the symbol was complete and she was still and her breathing was even, and his mind was thick with fog and his limbs heavy.

He spoke the final words and struggled to stand, his hand drifting from her as the last syllable left his lips.

The dream would hold her until her body was rested and she had recovered.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmured, wishing he could sleep as soundly as she now was, and went intangible.

He drifted back through the palace, across the grounds, and through the villages. Slower this time. He stifled one yawn after another as fatigue gnawed at him. He passed the legion and then finally reached his black temple. He entered it and became tangible once more, and strode to the central room, his steps wobbly as he fought the tiredness invading his body.

What other things would Mnemosyne have to tell him?

Only the chamber was empty.

So much for catching up or at least waiting to hear he had fulfilled his mission.

Morpheus shrugged that off, too tired to really care, and clambered onto the dais and lay back to stare at the swirling stars that filled the air in the centre of the circle of stone that capped the black columns.

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