[A/N:Does anyone have any ideas regarding Hecate. I wanted either Morgana from The Runaways or Serinda Swan or someone else.]
In the depths of the Greek Underworld, Hades and Persephone sat upon their thrones—observers of the realm over which they ruled.
Hades presented a distinguished, dignified figure: middle-aged, his neatly groomed beard and mustache streaked with gray, adding gravitas to his fair, composed features. His hair, swept back and lightly tousled, framed his calm, authoritative expression—a faint, assured smile never far from his lips.
[A/N:Check Hades from Percy Jackson show. I didn't find the Sandman show version any good.]
Persephone, regal and enigmatic, was bathed in a spectral light that seemed to make her glow against the cavern's shadows. Her pale, ethereal skin and dark, elegantly styled hair contrasted with her flowing gown of deep greens and earthen hues. Her bare shoulders spoke of both vulnerability and strength, her piercing gaze balancing serenity and age-old sorrow.
The two deities watched in astonishment as Yan Sen spoke with Orpheus on the boundaries of their realm. The God and Goddess of the Underworld should have sensed any newcomer—yet Yan Sen had arrived undetected.
Hades scowled, grip tightening on his armrest. "Who entered my realm without permission?" His voice echoed with cold indignation.
But before he could act, another voice interjected—measured and calm. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."
Hades turned sharply. It was Death herself, her presence commanding yet unconcerned with Hades' authority. She didn't look at him, but fixed her gaze on Yan Sen's distant figure.
"His power is far beyond yours," Death said quietly, "and beyond even mine. I came only to warn you."
Hades frowned, uncertain, a rare flicker of caution in his demeanor. Persephone leaned forward, curiosity glinting in her deep eyes.
At the periphery, the Three—the Kindly Ones—watched as well, masked in layers of shadow. The Crone's voice was low and sharp. "I'd hoped he'd intervene. If he does, perhaps we can finally consider a new Lord of the Underworld."
The Mother looked at Hades with frankness. "If I were you, I'd ignore him. Any move against him means your end—nothing of you will remain."
Hades listened, shaken by their counsel. His own guilt lingered whenever the Kindly Ones appeared, their presence a reminder of debts and older, broken bonds.
He fell silent, nodding in grim acknowledgment.
At last, Persephone's voice broke the hush, soft but steady. "Who is he?"
Death, already fading into the shadows, gave her answer—a single, chilling phrase: "The End of Everything."
A heavy silence settled over the throne room, the mysteries of the Underworld shifting in the presence of something utterly beyond their power or understanding.
Dream stood at the edge of the Silver Plains, the endless stars of the Dreaming whirling above, a silent monarch surveying his half-lit dominion. Thoughts of Orpheus—his only son, his greatest disappointment—stirred unbidden. Orpheus's words, always so full of pleading and reproach, echoed in the vast stillness: "Why do you not help me, Father? Do you not love me?"
Love. Dream's mouth tightened. Such things were for mortals and the weak-willed. What good had love ever brought but pain and complication? Orpheus's fate was both the price and the product of his own choices—choices Dream had warned him against. Destiny, not Dream, governed all. To offer mercy where discipline was needed was to betray the order of things. He had performed his duty as a father and as lord of the Dreaming; he owed his son nothing further.
Just then, Lucienne approached: a tall, composed woman with dark skin, her sharp gaze softened only by the circular vintage eyeglasses resting on her nose. "My Lord, your brother Lord Destiny is here to see you."
Dream's brow furrowed. Destiny's visits were rare, unwelcome disruptions in the clockwork order. He murmured, "Destiny."
Aloud, his voice reasserted that measured, unyielding calm. "Let him come."
Lucienne bowed and departed, grave as the waking world's midnight. Destiny emerged from shimmering mist, book in hand, hood and chains, as inevitable as prophecy itself.
Dream spoke first, his tone the cold formality of a reluctant sovereign. "What can I do for you, brother?"
Destiny blinked, gray eyes deep as the void. "Do you know what happened with Orpheus?"
A flicker of confusion—barely perceptible—crossed Dream's features. "He has gone to Hell, to get back Eurydice. A failed endeavor."
Destiny's reply was subtle yet absolute: "His destiny changed. Orpheus brought back Eurydice."
Now Dream stood, the movement precise and stately. Destiny continued, "I saw his fate in the book. It was set. But now, the original fate is entirely removed."
Icy confusion twisted inside Dream, but he would show no uncertainty to Destiny. "What happened?"
Destiny closed the book with gentle finality. "You should go ask Death. She is the last one who met Orpheus."
The Dream Lord considered this, posture straight, face impassive, thoughts unshared. If the weave of Destiny's tapestry could be undone, it was no fault of his. The conduct and fate of sons—like those of mortals—were their own responsibility. A problem, perhaps, for another time. The Dreaming would endure, as it always had, untouched by the wavering of human hearts.
Death was at work. She stood in a quiet house veiled in mourning, the air thick with sorrow and whispered prayers. In the center of the room, the old man's body—Harold Wayne—was laid out for his family. He was frail, face creased and pale, white hair carefully combed, the quiet peace of death finally softening his features. Around him, children and grandchildren wept. Their grief formed a fragile circle; love and loss mingled in the hush.
Harold's soul watched, invisible, distress etched deep across weathered features. He saw every tear, every gentle touch from sons and daughters clinging to memories.
Death stood beside him, calm and kind. Her presence was gentle—a shadow at the edge of light, neither cold nor menacing. She reached out to comfort him. "Don't worry. Your family will live long, wonderful lives."
Harold's hands shook as he wiped phantom tears from his eyes. Death offered her hand, her smile quietly reassuring. "It's time to go, Harold Wayne."
She knew the Wayne family had a future destined for greatness; among them, one would rise to become more than exceptional.
Harold drew a steadying breath and took Death's hand. In an instant—a flash of gentle, unnatural light—they vanished, leaving only the sound of mourning behind.
Death found herself alone again and let out a long, tired sigh. She sensed another presence entering the room.
Death turned, a small smile breaking through her fatigue. "Dream, it seems you want something."
She faced Dream, who stood nearby, silent and curious, his gaze sharp and searching as if trying to read her.
Dream's voice echoed quietly as he stepped from the shadows. "I was visited by our brother, Destiny. He told me Orpheus' fate has changed. You were the last to see him. Did you have anything to do with this?"
Death let out a weary sigh. "I asked someone to intervene," she admitted, her eyes fixed on some memories of Yan Sen.
Dream's expression darkened, his posture sharpening with disapproval. "Interfering with fate rarely ends well."
Death's lips pressed together in a thin line. "I know. That's why I found someone beyond the reach of the Fates—beyond even the Three. Even they are wary of him."
Dream's frown deepened. Despite being Endless, even he avoided crossing the Three, the ancient Fates who shaped destinies. Only their parents—and perhaps Death herself—were said to defy their power. The rest, even Dream, were bound by the rules.
Curiosity flickered in Dream's eyes. "Who is he?"
Death's mouth twitched in a wry smile. "For now, he wishes to remain unknown. But don't worry—you'll meet him soon enough."
Dream considered pressing further, but caught the subtle warning in her gaze. With a soft swirl of sand, he disappeared, leaving the air shimmering in his wake.