Chapter Text
The Lord of the Underworld, Anaxagoras, led a quiet life as one might expect from the keeper of the dead.
Dutifully he sat at his desk, and processed thousands of lives as the dead came to him in an orderly line; cause of death, length of stay, accommodations, and penance. It was bland, tiring work that would bore a god to death after the first minute - but Anaxa was used to it after so long, and it was a small point of pride for him that he could do something an Okheman could not.
This was meaningful work; another thing an Okheman could never understand.
The hands of the clock in the lobby struck noon, telling him it was time for him to rest. In the House of Hades, he dictated when a day ended and started - when he sat down for work, it was “morning” and when he got up, it was “night.” The sun would never stoop so low as to shine underground, so he used the ingenuity of human souls and his own to keep track of Time, the domain of his father, who was now sealed deep within the crust of the earth.
Like himself, Anaxa supposed.
He reminded a politician, his final client for today, to weep only in the designated mourning areas, and placed a sign indicating the end of his shift upon his hardwood desk. The remaining shades were instructed to visit Castorice’s office to the left of him once she returned from the surface.
The shades - both workers and visitors, both famous and unknown, made way for him, and no one spoke to him at all. Anaxa had a kingly presence, with his jewels, his silver robe, the dignified way he carried himself, and it demanded of his surroundings a quietness befitting the library that was the House of Hades.
The House was often described by mortal bards as being austere, based on the bookishness of its keeper, but in truth, the decorations were elaborate yet tasteful. A long red carpet was laid out for the newly fallen, an attempt at welcoming those surely frightened and confused at their new afterlife. Candelabras provided soft, ambient lightning from every inch of the temple, the biggest of which was the chandelier which hung from the ceiling of the lobby. Decorated with gorgeous jewels, easy to find when one lives so deep underground, the gems reflected the light and gave the interior a subtle palette of color.
Those bards weren’t entirely incorrect, of course. The decorations were a recent thing, as recent things could be to something as infinite as Anaxa. But infinity meant he had too much free time, and staring at well-constructed but plain pillars and walls was getting tiring even for him.
Even Anaxa needed enrichment, and hobbies.
Now in the privacy of his room, which was as ascetic as the bards had claimed his temple to be, with the exception of the hidden plushies given to him by Hyacine, he changed out of his lordly form - a butterfly putting on its cocoon.
A peasant stared back at him in the brilliant, gold mirror, out of place in its gaudiness.
Gone was the silver and the rings, replaced with thick worker gloves and sandals and not much else. His chiton was shorter, frayed and old. The small rips and tears on it were fixed with an amateur hand. But it would’ve been impossible to mistake him for a mortal still; his one remaining eye was dual-toned, emerald green and deep red.
His gaze used to shine a little brighter only a few decades ago. But then he looked at the ruby earring hanging off his ear.
A reminder. A gift from Hyacine, a savior of his. It was the color of blood, viscera crystallized, proof that he was both jailer and prisoner of the Underworld, proof of his sin, yet also proof that his deeds had meant something, to someone, that he mattered to the Messenger of the Gods at the very least. He could not go without it - he would fall apart as he did once before without this reminder of love, a part of his heart.
Hells. If only Mount Okhema could see him now, they’d laugh more than usual. And like always, Anaxa would ignore them. But down here, in his heart of hearts, he felt a bit sorry for himself, looking like this.
So pale, so weak, so human.
Before the Titanomachy, he was a god.
The elements bowed to him, men prayed to him, for wisdom, for aid, for the impossible. To many a hero he had been a mentor, his form and name immortalized in the finest poetry, the most epic of stories, alongside theirs. Anaxagoras the Wise, Reason Incarnate, Tutor and Teacher.
Prometheus called him “professor.”
Never once did he seek glory on his own, but he was often shared with it, for humans coveted it more than their own lives. Students came to learn from him from all around the world, traveling to a lone temple nestled deep within a forested grove, a place he stayed at more than on top of the Mountain, for he enjoyed the company more. Gods were stagnation made manifest - they were powerful, confident, and nothing could threaten them, nothing ever since their coup against their forebears, the Titans, and thus they never grew.
Humans, on the other hand - fragile, ambitious, and endlessly fascinating in their recklessness - he was happiest when a student would come to his temple after graduation to regale him with tales of their exploits and discoveries. Anaxa himself learned the most from these exchanges, and within his breast he carried memories of every single face who so happily thanked him for his care.
Humans, he was fond of.
Was he still so?
As a gravekeeper, he frightened them, for he was their final judge, and thus he was exposed to a more ugly, animal side of mankind. Every day, he read a list of deeds, ranging from murder and worse, to almost saint-like actions. Sometimes in the same file. How could one be so cruel, yet so kind?
All these memories felt so heavy now. He had sacrificed a lot for these creatures.
For Prometheus.
The scars spidering across his body now were proof. As he wore his chiton, the one he made with his own clumsy hand, the ones upon his legs were exposed, and they ached as if freshly cut. His pale skin was covered in glowing cracks as if he were a broken vase, former godliness apparent only in that his wounds, open as they were, did not bleed any blood, and instead showed the insides of his soul to all who dared to look at him. To gaze upon him, to see through his flesh and into his soul, was to see a night sky of unfathomable depth, remnants of power glittering in the dark beyond like stars. Upon his chest, always well-hidden no matter what his dress for it was the deepest mark of his shame, and a terrifying sight regardless of his feelings for it, was a gaping hole, utterly lightless and empty, for it was where his heart used to be before it was torn out of him for his transgressions,, shattered into a million pieces.
Pieces of him were missing. He was incomplete. He was in pain.
But he was used to this, in a way one could get used to starving. You just learn to ignore it, and so does your body. This was how things were now. Humanity had moved on, and so had Mount Okhema.
He had, too.
He wanted to. He was trying very hard.
So why couldn’t he?
In the mirror, his expression was that of quiet grief. He looked like every other shade in his realm; like he had lost someone, something extremely precious, a thing he could never get back, and now he was hollow. He had nothing left to live for.
Should a dead god truly be judging dead men?
Suddenly, he turned on his heel. Anaxagoras forced himself to leave in the directions of the gardens. Enrichment and hobbies were necessary to fill the emptiness inside.
He tilled the earth so he would stop thinking. Mortals often recommended taking up tasks, hobbies and routines to help create the illusion of normalcy, and Anaxa’s chosen delusion was gardening.
It was physical, it was tiring, it made him sweat and even for a little bit, it made him happy.
He did not think about how easy this would’ve been if he had his powers.
The moment he finishing tilling the earth, it began to rain in the House.
A pure white unicorn flew around the ceiling. Hyacinthia was coming to visit.
As the Messenger of the Gods, she was blessed with speed, and was his sole visitor from the Mountain, for he was treated as an embarrassment, or a risk, by everyone else. She brought storm clouds with her, tied to the back of Ica, her mount, with golden rope, watering the earth. It was quite literally heavensent aid - Anaxa would’ve had to drag jugs of water around otherwise.
“If you adore mortals so much…” said a harsh voice.
After a lap amongst the skies, Hyacinthia dissipated the clouds with a flick of her wrist, and rainbows followed in her wake, a rare sight in the Underworld. She dismounted carefully before Anaxagoras, as he stood surrounded by gardening tools, seeds and papers. Unlike the other gods of Okhema who adored the color gold, she wore her own personal colors of pink and green, signifying her independence from the court. Her excuse was that since as a Messenger, her work carried her to other regions, thus it would be best if she presented herself as a neutral party to the other pantheons so her arrival would not be seen as a sign of aggression. On paper, she was simply a contracted third party.
But they both knew the timing of her secession from the Mountain was no coincidence - right after Anaxa was forced to fall. He appreciated the gesture, truly, both her actions and the earring she gave him.
”A special delivery for the Ruler of the Underworld,” Hyacinthia said, as she presented a basket of seeds from all around the world, ready to be planted. Ica turned small after she dismounted, and now hovered over her shoulder like a clumsy bumble bee in its fat little form. Even its messenger bags became small along with it. It dooted in delight.
“Thank you, Hyacine,” Anaxa smiled. The Okheman pantheon were all technically very distant family, but to him, she was a sister. Amongst all the gods, they were the most fond of mortals and reading. He’d assisted her when she was learning to fly by controlling the winds, scattering storms, and she helped him by gathering interesting things on her travels. Even if he couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain anymore, she still visited.
“Of course, Naxy,” Hyacine smiled. She took inventory of the shed and the remaining seeds, fertilizer, and the status of his tools. “You’re running out of nightshade. You use that for alchemy, right? I’ll bring a few next time.”
”You keep better stock than I do.”
”That’s not very difficult,” Hyacine giggled, as she wrote down a few notes upon paper for her own sake. “Make any new tools recently?”
”A new shade with gardening and engineering knowledge arrived yesterday. He said he can build something that waters the plants at regular intervals?”
”Human technology is moving fast! Not as fast as myself, though.”
”Not yet.”
”Not yet,” Hyacine smiled. To other Okhemans the very thought was blasphemy. Humans, outdoing the gods? But they looked forward to the day when divine prayer wasn’t needed at all.
Then he wouldn’t have to be here anymore. But he’d never say that to her.
“What news from above?” Anaxa asked, as he finished putting away his tools.
Hyacine laughed nervously. “Well…”
Suddenly, an earthquake shook the entire House - small rocks fell from the ceiling, things fell from their perches, the shades looked around with worry, before it settled down in another moment. The Underworld was a divine space, thus natural disasters couldn’t affect the temple. But divine disasters, such as gods, could.
Anaxa put back the shovel that had been leaning against the table before the quake. Mildly, he asked. “Well. Who angered Caenis?”
”The youngest god in Okhema. The God of Seasons.” Hyacine sighed. “He appeared after you fell.”
”I see. Poor thing.” Anaxa replied. He had heard many new gods appeared in Okhema after the Titanomachy, and then he remembered Caenis’s temper; just breathing wrong could set her off. He was old enough that she couldn’t affect him anymore, but the young ones had no such experience.
”He ran away from the Mountain, and now no one can find him.”
Anaxa’s hands paused as he was preparing his basket of seeds. “Oh? He is either wise or extremely foolish. I’m surprised a boy like that has the know-how to hide from Okhema. Is he clever?”
Hyacine thought for a moment. “We’ve met, though we’ve never spoken. The Council doesn’t allow him to talk to me. But he is competent - often sent to slay monsters mortal heroes cannot slay themselves, and the fact that he’s even alive is a good point in his favor. Caenis has torn apart a few of the young ones already.”
Anaxa felt sick at the term. Torn apart.
His chest ached. Empty.
“I escorted him for the changing of the Seasons a few times.” Hyacine said, quickly changing the subject. “He always looked so miserable.”
“If you spoke to him, you might radicalize him as I once did you, I suppose.” Anaxa joked instead.
Hyacine laughed. “Can’t have gods doing good for mankind, they might forget their place. I think Caenis suspects one of their own helped him escape. She’s been sending me nonstop summons, probably to task me with the search. Fortunately, I’ve been away, but…” She looked at the basket; no wonder the seeds this time around looked particularly exotic. Anaxa wondered how far she went.
”I’m surprised Caenis even cares.” Anaxa said. “I suppose the perceived indignity of a boy defying her orders made her furious. I like him already.” He smiled. “So Caenis is throwing thunderbolts at random, hoping to hit him? Thoughtless as usual - she’s going to wake the dead at this rate, or cause more of it.”
“She’s scaring me, with-!”
Another thunderbolt, another quake. Ica dooted, and in her bags, a scroll with an Okheman seal appeared. Hyacine read it, and her face filled with dread. “I’m going to have to at least see her, aren’t I?”
”It seems so.” Anaxa said. “Very unfortunate. At least she never comes down here.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure if she’d be bright enough to dodge the traps to make it down here.” Hyacine said. Then she looked at the full basket of seeds in Anaxa’s arms. “Let me at least help with-“
Another bolt. Hmm. Caenis was unusually persistent today. Did she know Hyacinthia was down here? She usually didn’t care.
“Perhaps she saw Ica?” Anaxa said, after a moment of thought. “She was actively looking for you, after all.”
“She must’ve noticed me taking her storm clouds!’ Hyacine groaned. “Ugh. She normally doesn’t.”
“She doesn’t normally notice anything, so we may classify this as a freak accident.” Anaxa replied. Then his tone softened, more serious this time. “You’re needed up there. I’ll be fine.”
”But I - okay. I know.” Hyacine said, sadly. Before she suddenly pointed at something behind Anaxa. “What’s that?!”
He humored her and turned around. When he looked back again, Hyacine had taken the baskets and planted the seeds in the soil, and disappeared along with her pegasus with divine speed. A note was left in his hands instead. “Take care!”
Anaxa smiled. What would he do without her?
It was warm in the lobby.
This was highly unusual. The House of Hades, being ruled by a man of routine such as himself, who checked every single thing, and did every chore on his own, was largely stable. Though, recently, at Castorice’s insistence, he had trained a few shades to do the more mundane work, such as simply checking if the devices were working at all. Of course, this came with issues regarding overeager or otherwise workers messing with the settings of light or humidity, but such changes were usually easy to amend.
But he never taught shades about the warmth generator. It was newer and more sensitive, thus Anaxa didn’t feel confident enough in his own knowledge of it, and he never taught anyone anything he didn’t know like the back of his own hand. He had created it mostly for the benefit of the garden he kept - so even if a shade had messed with it, its effects should never reach the lobby of the House.
So why was it warm here?
He hadn’t even remembered what warmth was like until now.
It felt nostalgic, like a midsummer day. Back at his temple on the surface, he had spent many a lazy afternoon reading books or sleeping under the canopy of the trees during such perfectly mild weather.
And it felt irritating. He didn’t need reminders of what he’d lost. Was an Okheman visiting to annoy him? Looking for their errant god, perhaps. Next time, he should create some kind of gate that demands proof of appointment.
Anaxa got up from his desk to search. The shades simply watched him go, no longer in any rush. The candles melted more than usual, and he could feel himself getting uncomfortably hot with his thick, black robes as he walked.
Perhaps he should just swap into his chiton for the sheer shock factor. An Okheman might faint on sight.
That would be quite funny, actually. Anaxa took a moment in his room to take off his fineries, changing to his plain clothes, far more comfortable to wear in the newly heated House. Keeping only his earring, he approached the gardens, where the warmth was strongest.
When he arrived, what he noticed first was that this batch of mint and forget-me-nots and assorted flowers were blooming brilliantly.
Normally, his little children, try as they might, never grew to their full potential in the darkness of the Underworld. The light that shone upon them was synthetic, made by alchemy, and so too was the warmth and moisture in the gardens, all from handcrafted devices.
A small part of him prided himself in being able to grow anything at all. Even when powerless, he could still defy Okhema’s natural order.
But he knew, ultimately, what he had made were imitations of his siblings' powers. All natural phenomena were under the authority of gods, and were blessed (or cursed, depending on their mood) by them. Without divine help, his plants were at the mercy of highly specific mechanical tuning, perfected by trial and error, and sometimes just plain luck. He had pushed his greenhouse to the limit of mortal capability, which still paled in comparison to the gardens of say, what he had heard of Elysium, the place the Okhemans favored and cared for with magic.
His garden was now the one from his dreams. The one he could make if he still had magic of his own.
The trees were taller, some of them even beginning to grow fruit. Pink petals decorated the branches of the one Hyacine had brought from the far eastern islands as a gift - an event so rare that it would’ve made Anaxa’s eternal night just to see that and nothing else, let alone witnessing bearings of cherries and plums.
In a state of shock, he plucked a pomegranate, red as his earring. He gently pried it open and ate a couple of seeds.
It was ambrosia.
Quickly, Anaxa went to get his special basket, one he’d woven just for such an occasion, a light finally in his eye.
He explored; a trail of flowers formed a path between the trees which had turned into a veritable forest, resembling his old grove home, a river of color for him to wade through. Excited, Anaxa kicked off his sandals so he could walk amongst it all barefoot. He recognized every single thing he ever planted, and in his mind, praised them for growing so well. His little sprouts. His little students.
It had been some time ever since he’d felt such joy.
Anaxa knew all this meant the presence of another god, yet even that couldn’t sour the happiness he felt at seeing everything he worked for in such perfect condition. He made a vow - he would only somewhat rudely demand the Okheman to leave as soon as possible, so he could enjoy his gardens alone.
He also did not rush and took many little detours, and plucked lots of fruit on the way, filling his basket till it was full.
The path came to a clearing. A field of wheat surrounded a small hill, upon which was an ancient tree that grew even beyond the Underworld and into the surface, and perhaps even beyond that. An artificial sun loomed in the fake horizon, for the ceiling was enchanted to be sky blue; every brick was inscribed with a rune, helping to simulate day-night cycle for the sake of the plants.
That tree was the inspiration behind the garden, and the spot below it was his favorite place to rest. If one thing could grow, Anaxa had thought, then so could many. He was glad to have been proven right.
Walking through the wheat towards the ancient tree, his feet covered in dirt and soil, his chiton short and comfortable, his hands clutching a basket of fruit, Anaxagoras looked less like a grave keeper and more of a simple, overjoyed farmer. Offhandedly, he wondered if Elysium looked like this, as the land was made after his departure, and only knew it was for the most worthy of mortals.
For what else could you possibly want? How could this not be heaven enough?
What do I want?
Anaxa sat in the cool shade provided by the tree, his basket placed to his side. He listened to the leaves swaying in the man-made wind, close enough to feel real in this moment, and let it lullaby him to sleep. He had spent so many days like this back on the surface, and dreams of happier days visited him.
Before…
“If you adore mortals so much…” said a harsh voice, seething, booming. Eyes as cold as ice, her lips sneering in cruel victory.
Someone shook his arm.
Like a cat woken rudely from its nap, Anaxagoras made a complaining noise. “Yes…?”
“Sorry to wake you,” spoke a kind, bashful voice. “But do you know where I can find the Lord of the Underworld?”
Anaxa’s eye shot open. He sat up.
The voice belonged to a handsome young man, his hair just like snow in its softness and color. Eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, as brilliant as the sun, especially since he was so close to Anaxagoras, as he was kneeling before him. His skin too was brilliant, sunkissed with a healthy sheen, and the fullness of his muscles were obvious in his arms and legs, practical enough that gave Anaxa the impression of a swordsman. Every inch of his form was perfect, as if he had been sculpted by a master artist.
But his clothing in particular was very interesting.
His chiton was made of divine silk, pure white with a faint golden shimmer, the trademark of a goddess whom he disliked for personal reasons, the design obviously Okheman. But the cloak he wore was plainer, with a dour color. In its leather he could faintly make out runes that he had discovered so long ago, used to dissipate magic meant for divining and finding one’s location.
Oh. Someone used his work to hide this boy. Clever. No one would ever suspect it - Okhemans disliked studying, after all.
Aglaea must care a lot for you, Anaxa thought.
To help you escape so, runaway god.
This boy was the one radiating warmth and power, whom his garden had respected by growing to its fullest, the keeper of Seasons.
The one Anaxa had to thank for making him let go of his guard. There was wheat and leaves in his messy hair, the tail almost undone. He had rolled around in his sleep, so his chiton too had collected its fair share of detritus. With his silvers and jewels left behind, he had no semblance of status, so he must’ve looked like any other shade.
Except for his ruby earring.
Anaxa did not need anything else other than that and his glare anyway. His expression turned cold and regal, the face of the judge of the damned, his voice hard with authority.
“You are speaking to him, intruder.”
