Hades

            The throne room was where judgements of the dead were made. A throne composed of bones stood at the top of a dais against the far wall, and to the left, a slightly smaller twin stood. He escorted Persephone up the hall, past the courtiers, then helped her into her throne before he took to his own. The judges sat in three balconies on the opposite side of the room, high up the stone wall, above the grand entrance. Persephone sat relaxed, looking almost bored, but for her sharp eyes that missed nothing. She was the perfect picture of an ice-cold queen.

He wondered what picture he presented, though didn’t pay much mind. Nobody in the room would look him in the eye, much less pass judgement. His queen was meant to be the personable one. The approachable one. That was what made her much scarier in his opinion. With a sympathetic smile and a few kind words, you would eagerly spill every weakness to her. He surveyed the room in displeased silence. Wasn’t he called here to pass judgement? Where was the newly dead then?

The dead courtiers milled about, some sipping at empty glasses, others staring off into nothing. The court was drab. It was simply another form of punishment for the guilty; he wondered what he had ever done to be labelled guilty and deserving of this. Sounds of muffled conversation floated through the room, though no one spoke.

Crash! The entrance burst open, the large doors slamming against the walls in their haste to get out of the way. Hades was schooled in keeping his reactions private, though he did damn-near piss himself. The courtiers were now actually speaking, adding to the white-noise of the space. Hushed whispers accompanied the single man responsible for the disrupting entrance. Thanatos rushed up to the man and grabbed his arm roughly. Hades surmised it was an unruly soul indeed to be able to escape death itself, even if for only a moment.

His interest was piqued. Perhaps being called here wouldn’t be as drab as he’d been dreading. Especially now that he could see the soul’s face.

Siromos

            Waking up today was not what he had been expecting. The last moments he recalled played broken through his mind. Flashes of light. Thick wind, strong as brick. Sheets of rain. More light. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. Running. Panic. Fear. Fear so thick he was choking on it. Then it cut off, the rest of the memory faded in nothing. He was now standing in front of what looked like a medieval European court in grayscale. He didn’t know how he knew this scenery, but he was certain of it. A strange and lanky man who looked young yet held the silver hair of age had attacked him once he woke.

            He knew one thing, and that was that he didn’t want to die. So, his body – seeming to remember how to defend itself – broke free of the strangers grasp and took off running. That was when the memories hit. On auto-pilot, he was drawn here. To this room. Upon arriving at the grand doors, he heard a tinkle of feminine laughter, and they slammed open loud enough to announce his entrance. Stunned, he stood still, when the weird stranger caught up to him and grabbed him roughly again.

            About to fight again, he glanced about for a weapon, then his eyes caught on the most stunning couple he had ever seen. Even with broken memory, he knew for certain that he would see no others lovelier than those two. They both sat on thrones of… bone? He suppressed a shudder at the thought. Where in hades had he ended up? He swallowed thickly, deciding it didn’t matter the two were gorgeous. He was going to fight and free himself. Then, he would run until he was safe enough to recall what was missing from his mind.

            Easing back into himself, he concentrated on getting the gross stranger off him, letting his body carry out the required action. He let himself fall completely limp, the strangers grasp weakening, caught off guard. That was when he sprang back into movement. Effortlessly, he swept out his foot once he’d crouched to the ground, kicking the stranger’s own feet out from under him. As the stranger fell, he rose, turning to run once more.

            Then he ran into a wall. Not an actual wall, as he could still clearly see his escape ahead of him. No, this was an invisible barrier of some sort, blocking his movement. Turning, he tried to run back the way he’d come, and again, ran into an infuriating clear wall. Growling, he hit the wall fiercely, his need for freedom ever greater the more confined he became. Wild and frustrated, he struck out around him indiscernibly.

            His fist struck something soft. No, not soft at all, but much warmer and curved than the magic that had contained him. A body. A chest. A chest belonging to Him. The man who could only be a king. His thirst for freedom reared its head and he tried to strike again, though this time, his fist was caught. The king gripped both of his wrists in his hands, staring down at him with an icy heat.

            “Your name, Accused.” The king spoke, and he felt a soul-deep jerk of something within. The king’s voice was deep and husky. It was like grating stone and felt damn old. He was gaping at the king now; the fight having left him when he processed what had been asked.

            “My name?” He responded in kind, and now he noticed the room beyond was filled with gossiping chatter.

            “I spoke clearly.” The king quirked a single brow, and he fought back the insane urge to laugh. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the king was teasing him.

            “Siromos.” His name, which had – up until this point – evaded his memory, suddenly spilled from his lips.

            “Ah, Siromos.” The king tasted his name as if it were a fine wine, drawing out each letter.

            “And what’s yours?” He realized he was a cheeky bastard. Along with his knowledge of European courts, he knew you did not speak to royalty that way. The king’s lips lifted in a private little smirk, and Siromos almost swooned.

            “Perhaps we should get on with this. I’m sure you’ll figure out who I am soon enough.” The king kept a hold on one of his wrists, dragging him into the room until he stood before the throne dais. 

Persephone

            Well, well, well. With interest, she looked on at her husband. She could tell the moment the doors had burst open that Hades had been stricken by the sight of the mortal soul. True, he was a handsome youth, though her husband was not often reached through his impenetrable walls. That was when the soul dropped free from Thanatos’s grip and knocked the god of death to his ass. She couldn’t help the squeak of laughter that escaped. Thanatos was a stuffy bastard on the best of days. Then her husband was strolling through the restless crowd of disturbed courtiers.

            The soul was panicking, trapped in the wall of air Hades had called to block him. “Pfft, show-off.” She muttered under her breath. Then, she was surprised to see the young soul strike her husband’s chest. She was even more surprised when after a moment the soul attempted another strike. Then, Hades touched him. Hades touched no one besides her. Through touch he could know all a person. It was another bluntly shocking part of the moment.

            She could tell her husband had spoken when she could see the soul’s lips moving, though she could not pinpoint exactly what words were shared. Persephone was going to grill her husband about this. She was so deathly curious about what was going through his mind, and it killed her to not know right now. Then, Hades was returning up the hall, the soul in tow behind him. Planting the youth before their dais, he returned to his throne.