Samantha

Hades sent me to Olympus two nights ago, after he made me relive my death.

Rejection hurts like a bitch, but this was somehow worse. This was more than rejection, it was... abhorrence. Only enemies leave one another to convulse alone after they strike them down, and even then some have the decency to close their victim's eyes before doing so.

Hades piercing my heart with his sword wasn't the worst part of his second assault. It was the fact that after he heard me whispering the term he once called me in the fields of Enna, he left. I don't know what I was expecting when I said it, I was hoping it would at least let him know that I wasn't an enemy-- that I bore no ill will-- but his reaction was far from what I'd anticipated. 

 An unreadable expression crossed his features and then he stood, leaving his sword inside me without a single glance back as he walked out my bedroom-- leaving me still and dying on the floor. My fingers twitched, my vision blurred, and my consciousness drifted in and out in hazy patterns.

Ichor stained the rug beneath me, running to the cold floor the way my blood once ran into the hungry mouths of moonies. The only difference was that instead of Hades' desperate cries, Thanatos' whispered promises, or Fate's final verdict, it was the silence in my bedroom that greeted and enveloped me.

The thought of my death alone makes me recoil, accidentally causing pressure to stem from my abdomen-- forcing me into the present.

I keel onto Apollo, feeling my head fall back into his shoulder as a stabbing sensation emanates from my abdomen towards my ribs. He stitched up my wounds last night, but I can still feel the soreness that comes with recovery, and bruises haven't even formed yet.

"Shhh..."

His voice is soothing behind me, rumbling through his chest into my back.

Water droplets create ripples in the water as he moves to place his hands on my ribs. Faint trickling sounds follow his movement. Steady palms find their place at my sides beneath the water, gently exploring for inflamed, tender skin underneath soaked, loose bandages. Warmth spreads across the raised skin at the contact, seeping past its first layers and penetrating the nerves sending signals beneath, lulling their frenzy. Careful fingertips sweep over the area, cautious not to wander elsewhere as they creep up my ribcage towards my heart, seeking to allay not only the onset of pain, but the grip of anxiousness as well.

"Be still," he whispers, slowly moving his hands back to their previous position on the sides of the tub.

I nod, biting my lip as he reaches beside him to grab a book he'd left outside the basin. We're in his home, out in his open backyard sitting in a warm basin of water to appease my tense, hurting muscles. We do this twice a day, and he sits behind me every time to help with the rib pain and to steady me whenever my body fails to respond to me.

I hate relying on people, I'm used to being in charge. I'm used to being the one to give orders. But now, I have to bite my tongue and follow directions. The only reason I haven't gone back to the underworld is because my body has given up on me, the fear of dying again gnaws at my bones and leaves me restless at night.

Last night, Apollo had to sleep next to me to continually check up on my wounds and my wandering mind. When Hermes descended for me, one of us should've asked Hecate for a sleeping potion or Hypnos for a dose of his power, but I was too busy trying not to choke on my own blood and Hermes was too busy marveling at the creature who had set her husband-to-be on fire and then got herself impaled by the eldest son of Time. Twice.

Well, technically it's three times if you count my welcome in his study-- but they don't know about that.

 I'm sure Hermes had been more than interested in meeting the foreign girl who summoned Hades several times on Earth and then met her punishment for having done so. I know because he kept asking me questions, despite the fact I was literally lying still in his arms, trying to focus on breathing. 

Which reminds me... 

"Apollo."

The pads of warm, mindful fingertips flit my right temple as they move to sweep wet strands of hair behind my ear. The gesture makes my lips curve upwards involuntarily. Of course Fate would send me to a time where Apollo is the only decent being around me. They revel in the unexpected.

"Hmm?"

His nose comes into focus as he leans forward, his face shielded by the curtain of my hair. It's been growing with every dose of ambrosian elixir he gives me for my wound, now its tips skim my shoulders, tickling me.

"How can you understand me?"

My voice comes out strained, labored because of my uneven breathing. I'm afraid if I breathe in too deep, the stitches might come undone or I'll accidentally cause the wound to cut deeper. 

Knitting his brows, Apollo sits up straight, bringing a hand to my ribs.

"Language and the arts originate from Olympus."

My lips dip into a frown. If that's the case, then why was Hades unable to communicate with me? Why couldn't he have summoned Hermes, or Apollo or Athena? A sting overtakes my face, tinging my nose a blushing red. It's just one more reminder that this isn't my timeline, that Hades doesn't care for me. In fact, that's what hurts me the most, his indifference. 

Maybe if he outright couldn't stand me, I'd have a chance to win him over and make him look at me like he used to again. There's a thin line between love and hate, and all that. 

But, he didn't stab me because he hates me, he did it because he probably thought I had something to do with Kronos. Why else would he mention him? If he truly hated me, he wouldn't have carried me from the surface to the underworld, or nursed my wounded throat for that matter.

 I'm sucking in a breath to ask, but Apollo beats me to speaking. 

"Hades is not privy to that as his responsibilities pertain only to mortal beings, which is why one such as yourself has no concern summoning him."

 I lower my eyes, ignoring the urge to fidget with my fingers as Helios showers us with rays of warm light, illuminating crests of the settling water and the golden hair on Apollo's head. His skin glistens with an undertone of golden something that anyone with eyes can tell isn't human. Even among Olympians, he stands out. His skin, walk and talk radiate health and the bounce of youth no one else seems to.

My thoughts wander, pulled by the ebb and flow of the water caressing my skin and Apollo's words. I don't have to turn my head to see him to know he doesn't like Hades, and I'm not surprised. The muscles of his chest tense on my back, and the intonation of his voice is more than enough of a clue.

Olympians dislike him because the elder gods and goddesses have made it custom to evade speaking his name. And human beings on earth have picked it up as well. No one even thinks to question why he's been treated so terribly all these years, they just assume he's horrid.

"Hades is nothing like his father," I croak, feeling my chest tighten at the thought of anyone shunning him.

Apollo places a palm on my ribs again, shaking his head. 

"You should not speak, brilliance. It is much too laborious."

His lips press into a thin line, disapproval strewn all over his features as I move to turn, ignoring the pain radiating from my chest. It hurts me more to see firsthand how Olympians talk about Hades.

"He's not like Zeus and Poseidon have made him out to be," I insist, coughing, "He's--"

My breathing stills as pain in my chest forces me to quiet. My hands seek out Apollo, hovering blindly for a second as anxiety blurs my vision and tenses all my muscles. Not a second later, my palms find solid bone and muscle as his arms reach to embrace me, steady hands searching for the problem before gently applying pressure to my back and chest.

I can see his face in the fogginess, his lips moving, probably saying something encouraging, but I can't hear him. I'm slipping away, distancing myself I don't know where... but Hades is there. He lingers the corners of my mind as something soft and firm presses on my lips, prying them apart,  grazing them over and over again until oxygen revives my cells again. 

I come to gasping, causing sharp, deep stabs to awaken the pain in my lower right rib again. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, and my lips quiver as a dull ache overwhelms my heart. I wish Hades was here, I wish it was his arms around me instead of Apollo's. His concerned face in front of me, framed by inky tendrils burnished a bluish shine underneath the sun, not by golden coils.

 My body fails to respond to me as I fall onto Apollo, Hades' name spilling from my lips like a prayer I've received no response to. Like one you whisper in privacy in front of your bed every night, that you've memorized it so well it's become a part of you.

When an immortal is in peril, to whom do they pray to?