Chapter Text
Hyperion slid out of their robes, letting the drab things pool at their feet by the door, forgotten. Their discarded mask gets more care; delicately placed upon the mantle, a finger smudged beneath one eye. Thus concluded a hard day’s work– which was to say, a hard day of dodging questions from the rest of the Convocation upon their arrival back in Amaurot.
Honestly, they weren’t wholly sure why they had to answer any at all when Elidibus could do enough talking for the two of them– and since he knew all the answers already, the little sneak– but Hyperion supposed that stories from afar would not be the same coming from the Emissary as it would be from the Wanderer. Especially since the last time he’d tried to tell a story in any earnest sense Hyperion had quite nearly fallen asleep in Hades’ lap, the poor thing– But that was neither here nor there.
Or was it?
Hyperion blinked, fingers still outstretched to send a sizzle of a spark to their fireplace as they often would, so that it might crackle to a warm, green delightful light. But upon their couch laid someone else asleep, with a book half turned over his face as he laid snoozing, golden hair ruffled as he breathed so steady and so shallow– in, out, in, out.
Dear Hades-- their Hades-- was this where he’d been all afternoon? Taking shelter in the lush surroundings of a home not his own? Hyperion found themselves jealous-- they’d had to seek shelter from Hythlodaeus on their way to their home at the tower lest they be accosted.
All the same, fondness bloomed in their chest-- as it always did, bright and warm and clean-- and delicately Hyperion slid onto the floor next to him, laying their head upon the cushion next to his, their mismatched gaze studying him as he rests.
He was as beautiful as ever-- but tired, too. Every time Hyperion returned there were darker circles beneath his eyes and more furrows between his brow, even in rest. A grievous decision loomed on their horizon-- a collective one to determine the fates of many and more-- and it was one that Hyperion wanted no part of. If they could, they would refuse the very knowledge of the heinous act the Convocation’s planning.
They could not, of course. So they did the next best thing:
Refused the Convocation of their presence, as often as possible, for as long as possible.
A coward’s rebellion, perhaps, but a small rebellion all the same. Perhaps in those final hours before their horrible choice Hyperion will gain the strength to tear away.
They took one of Hades’ hands into their own, holding it gingerly and tracing the webbing between thumb and forefinger. Already they missed the idea of being able to come home to his presence, the notion of holidays celebrated together, of creations exchanged gleefully upon returns from their travels. There really just...hadn’t been enough time.
And what time they had, they’d squandered a great deal of it.
There was no point in speaking of the decision they’d come to while together: they have had all of these fights already out in public where all could see.
Only quiet contemplation remained down that road, and grief. So much grief.
Instead, when Hades rouses, Hyperion will pull them from the couch to kiss him silly. They will have dinner together, a welcome surprise. They will concoct something new using a strange bird brought back from another land with golden wings, giving it the ability to sing through the night. They will talk about those who are talking-- the ones who have rousing debates and who of them are “winning” and by “winning” Hades means who is being the most insufferable.
They will pretend.
They have to.
--
Emet-Selch looks down at The Oracle’s sleeping head in his lap, running his fingers through her hair. Her Sight was particularly strong this eve; strong enough that her vision of Amaurot had roused him with a bout of nostalgia so powerful it had nearly doubled him over in pain.
He smiles down at her, tight. She is not awake to see it nor analyze it, so her permits it.
What a painful time, those final days. For more reasons than one. He allows himself a single, dry laugh as he takes her hand in a direct copy of her memory.
“I suppose it was good practice, my dear,” he murmurs, kissing her palm. Each word aches like a gaping wound. “I have indeed done a great deal of pretending since.”