I was pacing. I never paced, but here I was, stepping back and forth like a caged beast, hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. My breath came in short, uneven bursts, and no amount of reassurance from my father could settle the storm raging inside me. The room felt too small, too constricting, the air thick with tension that coiled around my lungs and squeezed mercilessly. My heart pounded in my chest like a war drum, an erratic rhythm of dread and anticipation.
"Hades, you need to breathe," Cronos said, his voice even, a steady rock amidst my rising panic. He stood with the kind of patience only a titan could possess, watching me with a knowing gaze. "Panicking does nothing. The goddess of childbirth is with her. Everything will go as it must."
Poseidon lounged on a nearby bench, arms crossed over his chest, his posture exuding his usual careless confidence. And yet, I saw it—the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, the way they darted to me more often than usual. He would never admit to his own worry, but it was there, lurking beneath the smirk he wore like armor.
Aeolus stood near the window, shifting his weight from foot to foot, attempting to fade into the background. The god of winds was never one for grand emotions, but the way his fingers twisted in the fabric of his robe betrayed his own nervous energy. And then there was Ares, the youngest among us, practically vibrating with excitement, barely containing his restless energy. He grinned like this was a battle, his enthusiasm wildly misplaced.
Then the door opened.
Eileithyia stepped out, her figure framed in the dim light of the chamber beyond. Her hair clung to her damp forehead, her usually pristine garments stained with ichor. She wiped her hands with a cloth, her movements slow, deliberate. A deep exhaustion lined her face, but there was something else there too—an unmistakable glimmer of satisfaction.
My entire world shrank to the words forming on her lips.
"Congratulations, my lord. You are the proud father of twins—a boy and a girl."
Time still stands. The noise of the world fell away, leaving only the deafening silence of my own disbelief. My thoughts blanked, my breath catching in my throat as if the words themselves had stolen the air from my lungs.
Twins.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My mind struggled to comprehend the reality of it, the sheer magnitude of what had just been spoken into existence. A child was a responsibility—a destiny forged in blood and divine will. But two? Two lives, two fates intertwined with my own?
A heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder, jolting me from my stupor. Poseidon's grip was firm, grounding. He gave me a shake, his expression somewhere between amusement and something softer, something dangerously close to fondness.
"Twins?" My voice cracked, uncharacteristically fragile. I swallowed hard, forcing the word out again, as if saying it aloud would make it real. "Twins."
A slow, rare smile spread across Cronos' face. "A blessing from the Fates, indeed."
Eileithyia simply nodded before stepping aside, allowing me entry. My legs felt like lead as I walked into the room. Nymphs flitted about, adjusting blankets, preparing tonics, whispering soft words of encouragement. And at the center of it all, looking utterly exhausted yet radiant, was Hecate.
Her dark hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to her face, but she still smiled when she saw me. And in her arms—
Two tiny bundles. Two lives I had helped bring into the world.
My steps were slow, almost hesitant, as I approached. My chest ached, an unfamiliar pressure building as I kneeled beside her.
"Hades," Hecate greeted softly, her voice hoarse but full of warmth. She shifted slightly, tilting the infants toward me. "Come meet our children."
I reached out, hands trembling, and she carefully placed them in my arms. They were so small, so fragile, yet powerful in a way I couldn't describe.
The boy had thick black curls, skin slightly darker than his sister's, his tiny fists already curled in defiance. His eyes—when they fluttered open—I could help but be amazed at the way they looked like they had a galaxy trapped inside.
"Zagreus," I whispered, brushing a finger over his downy cheek. He let out a tiny sound, something between a coo and a determined grunt, as though already trying to challenge the world. I knew he and Ares would get along well.
And then I turned to my daughter.
She was pale, ethereal, her hair a mixture of silver and black, as though both moonlight and darkness had claimed her. Her eyes, when they peeked open, were an unsettling gold like her grandfather's eye.
"Melinoe," I said, my voice barely more than breathing.
I held them both, my heart swelling beyond what I thought possible. My children. My blood.
Tears burned my eyes, unbidden, unstoppable. I never thought this moment would come. I never imagined I would hold something so small yet so infinitely precious.
Fatherhood.
It was terrifying. Overwhelming. And yet, as I gazed down at them, as Zagreus grasped my finger in his tiny hand and Melinoe let out the softest sigh, I knew with absolute certainty—
I had never loved anything more.
<------------------>
A couple years passed, and the weight of ruling both the Underworld and Olympus had taken its toll on Hecate and me. Raising Zagreus and Melinoe had been a challenge in itself, but balancing that with our responsibilities as rulers often left us exhausted.
The familiar hum of conversation drifted from the hall, a mix of relaxed laughter and the low murmur of my fellow gods exchanging their thoughts. Aeolus and Hera had arrived with their children, and I couldn't help but be grateful for the distraction. Not that I didn't enjoy the company of the gods, but today, the weight of my duties seemed to press heavier on my shoulders. Between running the Underworld, managing Tartarus, handling the day-to-day affairs of the gods, and keeping Olympus in line, Hecate and I barely had time to breathe.
I leaned against the stone railing of the balcony, my gaze following the movement of the children in the gardens below. Zagreus and Melinoe, eager as ever, darted around with Ares and Eileithyia, their laughter ringing through the air like the melody of a distant storm. Hecate stood next to me, her eyes tired but still full of the same quiet strength they always held. We were both exhausted, though, no doubt about that. Parenting had not been as gentle a path as I had expected, and managing our responsibilities with our duties at Olympus made the hours in the day feel unbearably short.
"Should we join them?" Hecate's voice was soft beside me. She didn't have to say much for me to understand—her fatigue mirrored mine. A quiet understanding passed between us.
"No," I replied with a soft sigh, not taking my eyes off the children. "I believe that the kids will be fine, Eileithyia is with them. They shall be fine."
A faint chuckle escaped her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. "True."
Hera's gaze flickered between Hecate and me, her tone gentle, almost motherly. "How are you two holding up?" she asked, though the knowing in her eyes told me she already understood. She had been in our position before—raising children while holding the weight of divinity. "Parenting is no small feat, even for the likes of us."
I exchanged a glance with Hecate, catching the exhaustion mirrored in her eyes. Words weren't necessary; I knew she felt the same. I exhaled slowly, leaning back in my chair. "It's been… challenging," I admitted. "Trying to balance everything. It's a lot to juggle."
Hecate let out a tired sigh, managing a faint smile. "Our little ones certainly keep us on our toes."
Aeolus, who had been listening quietly, folded his hands in front of him, his brow furrowed slightly. "I know the feeling," he said, his deep voice tinged with fatigue. "Raising children while carrying the weight of our duties is never easy. But you find a rhythm, eventually."
Hera chuckled, her eyes softening as she watched us. "Eventually," she echoed. "You're lucky if it comes quickly. But it does come. With Ares, I had to be firm, teach him structure. He was always a force of nature—without direction, that fire could burn everything around him. But Eileithyia…" Her smile turned fond as she glanced toward the corner of the room where Ares' daughter played quietly with Melinoe. "She was different. She needed gentleness, guidance, but most of all, patience."
I followed her gaze toward our own children—Zagreus, wild as ever, and Melinoe, quiet, her moods shifting like the tides. Each with their own struggles—Zagreus, restless and insatiably curious, while Melinoe carried the weight of emotions even I couldn't always decipher. The balance between giving them freedom to grow and ensuring they didn't lose their way was an ever-present struggle.
"Consistency is key," Hera continued. "And you don't always need to have the answers. Sometimes, just being there is enough."
Hecate nodded slowly, her gaze distant as she absorbed the words. "It's hard to be present when the weight of the world never lets up," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
I leaned forward slightly, addressing both of them. "The constant responsibilities don't leave room for us to be just parents, do they?"
Aeolus exchanged a look with Hera before offering a small, understanding nod. "No, they don't. But that's the nature of it, isn't it? We take on so much, and in the end, it's our families that we work for. That's what keeps us going, even on the hardest days."
I considered his words, turning them over in my mind. He was right, of course. Family was the tether that held us together, even when everything else threatened to tear us apart. But there were days, especially recently, when the burden felt heavier than usual. And even though we'd never admit it, it was in these moments, surrounded by those who understood the chaos, that I felt some relief.
"We try," I said, my voice quiet, but resolute. "We do our best, for them."
Hecate gave my hand a subtle squeeze, her grip strong despite her exhaustion. "That's all we can do."
"You know," Aeolus mused, watching the children run through the flower-laden paths, "if you ever need help with the affairs of Olympus, you have but to ask."
Hera nodded, a rare look of agreement passing over her face. "He's right, Hades. No god should bear the burden of two realms alone."
I looked at them, considering their words. A slow, calculating smile crept across my face as an idea took root in my mind.
"You're absolutely right," I said smoothly. "And since you've both so graciously offered…"
Aeolus blinked. "Offered what?"
"The throne of Olympus."
Their reactions were instant. Hera scowled, Aeolus choked on his drink, and Ares laughed outright.
"You can't be serious," Hera said.
I spread my hands. "Why wouldn't I be? You two have always meddled in Olympus' affairs anyway. You might as well make it official."
"Hades," Aeolus began, looking utterly baffled, "you are the King of the Gods. You can't just hand Olympus over."
I waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I'll still be the King, don't worry about that. But let's be honest—Olympus has never been my preferred domain. I belong in the Underworld. It's where I am strongest, where I am needed most. So, if you're so inclined to offer assistance, consider yourselves my regents."
Hera folded her arms. "You're not giving us a choice, are you?"
"Absolutely not."
There was a long pause. Aeolus sighed in resignation while Hera shook her head, muttering something about me being insufferable.
"Well," Aeolus said finally, "I suppose we should thank you for the honor."
"Of course," I said smugly. "And you're very welcome."
Hera glared at me, but I could see the acceptance settling in her eyes.
As we sat back and watched our children play among the flowers, a rare sense of peace settled over me. Ruling the Underworld and being with my family—this was where I truly belonged. Olympus, with all its drama and politics, could belong to someone else. I had far better things to focus on now.