Page 102 of Where Darkness Bloomed
With a rough exhale, he had dismounted. Armor had melted from himas he walked through the temple to the throne room, replaced by a dark himation. The helm vanished into shadow, a gold laurel appearing in its place. Taking his throne, he had summoned the judges.
Now, before the dais, two small figures stood—a boy and a girl. They clung to each other, slight frames trembling.
In the left chair, Rhadamanthys unfurled a silver scroll, reading, “Kalista and Erasmus, children of Castor and Evanthia.”
The small boy whimpered, clutching his sister. Her arms tightened around him, though there was no protection to offer. Not here.
Watching them, Hades’s gaze softened. “Rhadamanthys,” he said quietly, “where is their mother? She is here as well.”
Rhadamanthys lifted his chin, calling out, “Evanthia, mother of Kalista and Erasmus.”
His voice reverberated through the hall.
The air beside the children stirred, then solidified.
A woman stepped forward. Her face was drawn, eyes stricken, but when she saw her children, a soft cry rang out. She gathered them to her skirt, their small hands clinging.
Hades’s gaze slid to the crook of her arm, to the infant cradled there. A child sleeping peacefully, too young to know death had claimed it. That judgment now loomed.
“You and your children stand for judgment,” Rhadamanthys addressed the woman calmly. “If found righteous, you may drink from the River Lethe and pass into peace. If not…”
He trailed off, glancing once more at the scroll.
“You lived in Troy?”
“Yes, lord.” The woman’s voice was a whisper, her trembling fingers resting on her daughter’s head. “We lived in the countryside.”
“Your death was two nights ago,” Rhadamanthys noted.
“The Greeks... they came, setting fire to our home.” Her voice shook, but she continued. “My husband—he died months ago in the war. I carried our babe in my womb when they stormed the countryside.” She looked down at the infant in her arms, sorrowful. “I... I could not get my children out.”
Silence descended, and Hades stood.
The air tightened, as if the Underworld leaned in to hear its master speak. A hush so deep that even the Styx outside seemed to quiet as Hades gazed at the woman.
In an instant, her life unraveled before him in a slow cascade of memory. Her childhood laughter. Her wedding vows. Joy at the births of her children. Her husband’s lifeless body on the pyre. The quiet strength that had carried her forward for her children.
Then—flames.
Thick, acrid smoke. Her children screaming in terror. The moment she realized she would not save them. The fire claiming her.
Pride. Joy. Grief. Fear.
The emotions roared through him, love and loss twining like grapevines. He closed his eyes for the barest moment, shouldering the weight of it.
When his eyes opened, she was watching him fearfully. Her hand stroked her daughter’s hair, a quiet, instinctive comfort. Even now.
“Evanthia of Troy.” His voice was solemn, tinged with the same sorrow that lingered around her soul like smoke. “Your children are innocent, their lives stolen by the cruelty of others. They are granted Elysium.”
She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing. But then another fear surfaced in her eyes, one he had seen too often.
The fear of parting. Of eternal separation.
“As for you,” he continued steadily, “you lived righteously. You sought no glory, fought no battles. But you obeyed the laws of gods and men, and you died striving to save your children.”
His voice softened, an homage to the sacrifice she had borne for them. “You have suffered greatly. For the love you bore them, and the sorrow you endured—Elysium awaits you.”
A pause.
