~Hades~

It had been far too long since I last visited my mortal worshipers. Years had passed since the war, and though I kept my gaze on the Underworld, my thoughts often wandered to the surface and the people who had offered their faith to me during those chaotic times.

The soldiers who fought alongside me in the war had become the core of the Underworld's personal army. They were immortal now, bound to me as my protectors and enforcers. But what of the mortals they left behind? Their families, friends, and those who had once prayed to me? It was time I found out.

When I emerged from the Underworld, I sought out the cave where I had first encountered them. Instead of the humble shelter I remembered, I was greeted by the sight of a sprawling village, vibrant with life. Stone houses lined neatly paved streets, and the fields beyond were lush with crops. At the heart of the village stood a grand temple, its marble façade gleaming in the sunlight, a testament to their devotion.

I made my presence known.

The air stilled, and then, as if a dam had broken, the village erupted into motion. A young boy was the first to approach me, wide-eyed and grinning from ear to ear. Others soon followed, bowing or falling to their knees, whispering prayers and exclamations of awe.

I greeted them warmly, making a point to address them not as their god, but as one who cared for their well-being. As I moved through the village, the Chief—a middle-aged man with a commanding presence and kind eyes—approached me.

"My Lord," he said, bowing low, "it is an honor beyond words to have you here. We did not expect—"

"Your devotion is enough," I interrupted gently, clasping his shoulder. "But tell me, how fares your people?"

He led me through the village, recounting their triumphs and struggles over the years. I could see the pride in his eyes as he spoke of their progress—the fields that now yielded twice the crops, the blacksmiths forging tools that rivaled those of the great cities, and the schools teaching children not only survival but the wisdom they preserved from my teachings.

When we reached the temple, the Chief hesitated before pointing to an unfinished statue standing near its entrance.

"We are building a statue in your honor," he explained, his voice tinged with reverence. "It will rise to the heavens themselves, so all who look upon it will know of your glory."

I stared at the massive figure taking shape in stone, a mixture of pride and discomfort stirring within me. The effort and resources they poured into it were evident, but I couldn't help but see the waste.

"Chief," I said, my tone firm but kind, "your intention honors me, but the resources used for this monument could be better spent. Take what remains of your funds and put it toward developing your city—building better homes, improving your tools, and expanding your reach. Let your prosperity be my monument."

He hesitated, glancing at the statue. "But, my Lord—"

"This is not a command," I added gently. "It is a suggestion from one who wants to see your people thrive."

After a moment, he nodded. "As you wish."

I turned my attention to the soil surrounding the village. With a gesture, I imbued it with divine energy, enriching it to ensure bountiful harvests for years to come. The earth responded, darkening and softening as if eager to bear the weight of new life.

In the temple, I found their sacred Scriptures—worn yet lovingly maintained. Flipping through the pages, I added new teachings, words of wisdom to guide them further in their journey. It was a small gesture, but one I knew would resonate through generations.

Before leaving, I wandered through the village, lending a hand wherever needed. I helped mend a roof, carried water from the well, and even sat with the children, sharing stories of ancient times and great heroes. Their laughter was infectious, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to forget the weight of my responsibilities.

When it was time to depart, the people gathered to bid me farewell, their voices filled with gratitude and prayers for my safe return.

As I stepped back into the shadows of the Underworld, I felt a quiet satisfaction. 

<----------->

The lamplight in my study flickered softly as I poured over the documents spread across the desk. Numbers, architectural sketches, and ideas cluttered every inch of space. Across from me, Hecate sat cross-legged on the edge of the desk, her black dress flowing like ink around her. She flipped through a scroll, her violet eyes scanning it with the precision of a hawk.

"This plan," she said, holding up the parchment, "for the columns? It's... fine, but why stick to the traditional marble? Why not incorporate something reflective, like obsidian? Or enchanted glass?"

I paused my writing, looking up at her. "Reflective materials? To show what, exactly?"

"Balance," she said simply, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "The gods are meant to reflect the mortals' struggles, their triumphs, their flaws. Why not embody that metaphor in the very structure of Olympus?"

I leaned back in my chair, considering her words. "Interesting. A mountain of mirrors reflecting the heavens and the earth. Symbolism has power."

She smirked, her fangs glinting in the lamplight. "Of course it does. Why do you think mortals still sacrifice to us? Half the time, it's not about their faith—it's the rituals, the symbols they attach to their prayers. Build something that resonates with those symbols, and it will last forever."

"Clever," I admitted, adding her suggestion to the growing list. The number of mortals on earth have grown rapidly over the years after the war. They have taken to sacrificing to us, be it an animal of fruits or flowers. 

We were planning the impossible: a new Mount Olympus, a sanctuary and council hall for the gods yet to be born. Though the Underworld was vast and could house more immortals than the mortal realm would ever realize, I felt it inappropriate for every god to root themselves here. The Underworld was my domain—a kingdom of death, rebirth, and judgment. It was sacred to me, and while I wouldn't deny shelter to any divine being, it was hardly the right place for the gods' central culture to take root.

Hecate and I had been at this for hours, refining ideas, arguing over logistics, and sketching possibilities. When she finally rolled up the last scroll and set it aside, I pushed my chair back, groaning as I stretched.

"If I write another word, I think my hand might fall off," I said, flexing my fingers.

She laughed softly. "You're the King of the Underworld and Olympus, Hades. Surely you can enchant a pen to write for you."

"I could," I said, standing and stretching again, "but where's the satisfaction in that?"

Her lips quirked into a smile, and for a moment, I found myself admiring the way her violet eyes sparkled in the dim light. There was something magnetic about her—a sharp mind, an unshakable confidence, and a grace that seemed effortless.

"Hecate," I said, stepping closer, "how would you feel about visiting the Garden of Styx with me?"

She blinked, her composure faltering for a split second. "The Garden of Styx? Isn't that where all the young souls go to—" She paused, then cleared her throat. "Is this... a date?"

I chuckled. "It could be. If you'd like it to be."

Her cheeks flushed the faintest shade of pink, though she quickly masked it with a nonchalant shrug. "I suppose I could be persuaded."

I laughed softly and held out my hand. "Consider yourself persuaded."

She hesitated for a moment, then placed her hand in mine. With a thought, I summoned the shadows around us, and in the blink of an eye, we were standing in the Garden of Styx.

The garden was a masterpiece of life and death intertwined. While the Styx and the Sakura trees make up the Hirosaki Park version. I have taken to create the rest like the Butchart Garden. Hecate looked around, her lips parting in surprise. "It's... beautiful."

"Of course it is," I said, guiding her down a winding path. "It's meant to remind the souls that even in death, there is beauty to be found."

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the distant sound of the Styx's currents blending with the soft hum of the garden. Eventually, we came across a stone bench beneath a flowering tree whose blossoms glowed with an ethereal light.

Hecate plucked one of the blossoms, turning it over in her hands. "You never told me you were sentimental."

"Sentimental?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"This garden," she said, gesturing around us. "It's not just a place for the souls to relax. It's... a sanctuary. You made it for them."

I shrugged. "The Underworld isn't just a place of judgment and punishment. It's also a place of rest, reflection, and renewal. The Garden is a reminder of that."

She smiled, a soft, genuine smile that caught me off guard. "You're not what I expected, Hades."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" I teased.

"Both," she said, laughing.

We spent the next hour wandering the garden, talking about everything and nothing. I showed her the grove where the silver pomegranates grew, and she told me about her favorite places to practice magic. At one point, we ended up near one of the silver streams, where she challenged me to skip stones across the water.

For the record, I won.

As the night wore on, the garden grew quieter, the souls gradually retreating to their respective corners of the Underworld. Hecate and I returned to the stone bench, sitting side by side beneath the glowing tree.

"This was... nice," she said softly, her gaze fixed on the stars.

"I agree," I said, turning to look at her. "Though I can think of one thing that would make it better."

She turned to face me, her brow furrowing. "And what's that?"

I leaned closer, and before I could second-guess myself, she closed the distance, her lips brushing against mine. The kiss was soft, hesitant, but it sent a warmth coursing through me that even the fires of the Underworld couldn't match.

When she pulled away, her cheeks were flushed, but there was a playful glint in her eyes. "You're lucky I like you," she said, her voice teasing.

I laughed, leaning back against the bench. "Oh, trust me, Hecate—I know."