Epilogue: No Longer On Call
The “No Zeus After Dark” sign hangs quietly crooked on the Underworld’s bedroom wing, now speckled with glitter and at least one jam smear from Cerberus’ third head.
Inside, the candles have burned low. The plush crescent beds are empty, the mythical pajama crew tucked away in various snoring heaps.
And in the throne room...
Hades stretches.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
Shamelessly.
One silk robe sliding half off one shoulder like even it was too flustered to stay on.
---
His glowing eyes scan the room, now his own again.
No unicorns crying over self-worth.
No banshees howling at existential dread.
No werewolves needing to unpack 3,000 years of emotional constipation under a blanket fort.
It’s… quiet.
Deliciously, luxuriously quiet.
And for once.. Hades doesn’t sigh.
He just smirks.
---
Cerberus lets out a soft growl beside him, each head buried in a separate crushed velvet pillow.
One eye cracks open lazily.
“You’re staring again,” the middle head mutters.
Hades doesn't even deny it.
His gaze is fixed upward, where (through a specially crafted skylight of enchanted obsidian) the Sun glows faintly. A distant flicker of golden warmth from the mortal world above.
He lifts a goblet. Something dark and rich swirls within it, but his smile is lighter than it’s been in centuries.
“Apollo’s shirtless again,” he murmurs. “Painting.”
Cerberus groans. “Oh gods, not the golden himbo again...”
“He wore an apron,” Hades adds. “Only an apron.”
Even the stone pillars blush.
---
There’s a pause.
Then a tiny scroll appears beside him in a puff of blue fire: a thank-you note from the Minotaur. “I used the meditation techniques. I haven’t gored anyone in two weeks.”
Hades places it in a drawer. Beside fifty-seven similar ones.
He deserves this moment.
This quiet.
This heat.
---
He rises from the throne with a languid stretch, abs catching the glow of the candelabras in ways that should be illegal in three pantheons.
“Apollo’s due for another Underworld tour next week,” he murmurs.
He picks up his pendant. Adjusts it. Smirks.
“Maybe I’ll let him stay for after dark.”
---
Fade to black.
Cue soft harp music.
End credits roll over the sound of Cerberus sighing, “We’re getting another guest room, aren’t we?”
---
The End.
(Or… a very mythically spicy beginning?)
Inside, the candles have burned low. The plush crescent beds are empty, the mythical pajama crew tucked away in various snoring heaps.
And in the throne room...
Hades stretches.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
Shamelessly.
One silk robe sliding half off one shoulder like even it was too flustered to stay on.
---
His glowing eyes scan the room, now his own again.
No unicorns crying over self-worth.
No banshees howling at existential dread.
No werewolves needing to unpack 3,000 years of emotional constipation under a blanket fort.
It’s… quiet.
Deliciously, luxuriously quiet.
And for once.. Hades doesn’t sigh.
He just smirks.
---
Cerberus lets out a soft growl beside him, each head buried in a separate crushed velvet pillow.
One eye cracks open lazily.
“You’re staring again,” the middle head mutters.
Hades doesn't even deny it.
His gaze is fixed upward, where (through a specially crafted skylight of enchanted obsidian) the Sun glows faintly. A distant flicker of golden warmth from the mortal world above.
He lifts a goblet. Something dark and rich swirls within it, but his smile is lighter than it’s been in centuries.
“Apollo’s shirtless again,” he murmurs. “Painting.”
Cerberus groans. “Oh gods, not the golden himbo again...”
“He wore an apron,” Hades adds. “Only an apron.”
Even the stone pillars blush.
---
There’s a pause.
Then a tiny scroll appears beside him in a puff of blue fire: a thank-you note from the Minotaur. “I used the meditation techniques. I haven’t gored anyone in two weeks.”
Hades places it in a drawer. Beside fifty-seven similar ones.
He deserves this moment.
This quiet.
This heat.
---
He rises from the throne with a languid stretch, abs catching the glow of the candelabras in ways that should be illegal in three pantheons.
“Apollo’s due for another Underworld tour next week,” he murmurs.
He picks up his pendant. Adjusts it. Smirks.
“Maybe I’ll let him stay for after dark.”
---
Fade to black.
Cue soft harp music.
End credits roll over the sound of Cerberus sighing, “We’re getting another guest room, aren’t we?”
---
The End.
(Or… a very mythically spicy beginning?)
