Page 177 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“No, he doesn’t,” Hades said gently. “He will be cared for.”
Tear-filled eyes lifted to his, pleading. “He’s just a babe. Alone here, in the Underworld.” Her face shone with anguish. “Did you see what they did to him?”
“I did.”
“Torn from his mother’s arms,” she choked, “and cast from the city walls.”
Hades closed his eyes.
He had seen. The horror of it clawed at his memory—small arms wrenched from his mother’s grasp, a woman’s shriek of despair, the merciless arc of a soldier’s arms as the child was hurled from Troy’s walls. The terrible silence that followed.
“War is never fair.” Sorrow and truth mingled, a paltry offering in the face of such vicious evil. “Its cruelties often fall heaviest on the innocent.”
The child stirred in Persephone’s arms. Dark eyes blinked open, looking up at them, uncomprehending—too young to know what had been stolen from him, his life cut blindingly short.
Hades reached out, fingers brushing the child’s dark curls.
Fury simmered beneath his skin. But deeper still—grief. For the child robbed of life. For the mother left behind, bereaved until the day her soul arrived on the riverbank.
He stood abruptly. “Come,” he said firmly. “Bring the child.”
Tears clung to her cheeks as Persephone asked, “Where are we going?”
“To his father.”
His hand found her arm, steadying her. The child let out a wondering gurgle as shadows coiled around them, wrapping them in darkness.
When the veil lifted, they stood on the shores of Elysium.
Crystalline waves lapped against warm white sand, soft as a lullaby. The beach was edged with a lush forest that grew to the foot of white cliffs towering in the distance. The air was warm, heavy with the promise of peace.
Not far from the shore, a lone figure stood waist-deep in the surf. The tide rippled around him, lapping at the linen tunic that clung to a strong form. Damp, dark curls brushed his shoulders.
As he turned, the man’s eyes marked Hades first. Recognition flickered in his gaze, and he began to stride from the water. But then his gaze dropped to the child in Persephone’s arms.
His steps halted at the water’s edge. Only for a moment.
Then he ran, kicking up sand as he sprinted toward them.
“Hector of Troy,” Hades said softly to Persephone. “This is his son, Astyanax.”
When Hector reached them, he sank to his knees in the sand, the breath catching in his chest.
“My lord. My queen,” he said hoarsely, his eyes never leaving the babe.
Persephone leaned forward, gently placing the child into his father’s outstretched arms.
The child cooed with delight, small fingers grasping at the roughness of his father’s jaw. Hector’s hands trembled as they cradled his son, fingertips brushing his cheek.
“My son…” The words barely rose above a whisper, ragged and thick with emotion. “I did not think—not so soon.”
Hades was solemn as he said, “Your son will remain with you, here in Elysium. Your wife still walks the mortal world. But in time, she will find her way to you both.”
Raw grief flashed across Hector’s face at the mention of his wife. Then he bowed his head, folding child into the shelter of hisarms. “I thank you, my lord.”
He rose, turning toward the open stretch of sand. The babe squealed in delight as Hector tossed him into the air, catching him with ease. A peal of laughter rang out—pure, bright, unburdened.
A bittersweet smile ghosted across Persephone’s lips.
