In the final days of the Olympians, the world itself seemed to shudder and crack. A storm of fire and darkness had erupted from the depths – Typhon, last son of Gaia, had risen in vengeance. Hades stood at the gates of the Underworld as the monstrous giant advanced, his roar shaking both earth and sky. The god's realm, once a place of grim order, was now a battlefield. Hades fought with a desperate fury, black robes whipping in the howling winds as he summoned forth spears of shadow and flame to stave off the chaos. Yet the immortals had grown weak with the waning of mortal faith, and even the Lord of the Dead could bleed. A razor-sharp claw rent the air; pain like Hades had never known surged through him as it tore into his immortal flesh. He staggered, ancient blood – ichor – gilding the ashen ground. In that moment, as the sky cracked with Zeus's distant thunder and the earth quaked with Poseidon's last rally, Hades knew their era was over. With a final anguished cry, the Lord of the Underworld fell, his body broken and his vision consumed by darkness.
For a being who had presided over death itself, the experience of dying was strangely serene. Hades felt the world slip away, the cacophony of battle muffled into a deep, ringing silence. As his mortal-shaped form crumpled, his consciousness drifted free like a wisp of smoke. So, this is what comes after, he thought, a flicker of bitter irony playing through his fading mind. He had guided countless souls to their rest, yet no one stood to guide him. No solemn ferryman came to fetch the fallen god; no familiar three-headed hound bounded to his aid. The last thing he saw before all light vanished was the shattered entrance of his kingdom and the silhouette of Typhon raging above, unopposed. Then even that faded. Hades, the Unseen One, became truly unseen – a disembodied spark of spirit falling into the void.
He did not know how long the darkness lasted. Time had no meaning in that abyss where even the Titan of Time's rampage could not reach. Hades found himself floating in a vast emptiness, a place between death and life. Is this all that remains? he wondered. Am I to simply vanish, as countless mortals do? A surge of defiance welled up within him. No – he was more than just another soul. He was Hades, God of the Underworld, eldest son of Kronos and Rhea, and he would not be extinguished so easily. He concentrated, gathering the tatters of his being around the core of his identity. Memories flickered around him, frail and disjointed, like ghosts dancing in the dark. He grasped at them, desperate to not lose himself. Scenes from a life immortal played out in fragments: a great obsidian throne in a silent hall; the cool weight of the Helm of Darkness upon his brow; the mournful cries of the newly dead queuing on the banks of the Styx. He saw himself presiding over judgment, aloof and stern as the souls of the wicked were dragged to Tartarus. He remembered binding the proud Sisyphus to his endless boulder and condemning thirsty Tantalus to reach for forever out-of-reach water – punishments he had meted out in the name of justice. These memories were his, the very essence of the god he had been. If he let go, if he allowed the darkness to wash them away, Hades would cease to exist in any meaningful way. And so, he clung to each memory like a treasure, holding them against the encroaching void.
Other images flashed by in the gloom, pieces of a divine life that now felt achingly distant. He recalled the moment of triumph after the Titanomachy, standing beside his victorious brothers. They had cast lots to divide the world then – Zeus the sky, Poseidon the seas, and to Hades fell the realm beneath the earth. By chance or by fate, he became master of the Underworld, a role dour and lonely, but one he accepted without complaint. He had never sought to expand his domain or usurp the realms of his brothers; in truth, he had been content to uphold the natural order. I was no tyrant, he reflected. I was merely doing the duty given to me. And yet, how thankless that duty had been. Mortal men feared to even speak his name, calling him by other titles in hushed reverence – "Plouton," the Wealth-Giver, among them. Few built temples in his honor or sang him praises under the sun. He was revered only in silence and shadow, during funeral rites and mysteries most dared not mention. Perhaps that is why I face oblivion alone, he mused bitterly. No prayers rang out for Hades' salvation in that final battle; no hymns would be sung to mourn the death of the death-god. The thought was a cold one, yet Hades let it galvanize his resolve. He refused to be forgotten. If the world would not remember him, he would remember himself.
A gentle light began to glow in the distance of that inner night – or perhaps it was only a sensation, a tugging at his being. Hades became aware of a pull, as if some unseen current had caught his drifting soul. He knew at once what it was and his essence quailed: the waters of Lethe. In the Underworld, the River Lethe was the final mercy for mortal souls – or a final cruelty, depending on one's view. To drink of Lethe was to forget every pain and joy of the life before, a necessary step for a soul preparing to be reborn. Hades had watched countless dead file toward those waters, shedding their memories as a snake sheds its skin. But now the river called to him. Its touch was cool, soothing, wrong. It promised peace, freedom from the burden of ages – all he needed to do was let go, to sink in and allow oblivion to wash him clean. For a heartbeat, the weary god was tempted. The weight of millennia of duty, solitude, and sacrifice pressed on him; to forget it all would be a kind of blessed relief. But then Hades remembered why mortals feared Lethe's oblivion. To forget is to lose oneself, to have the slate wiped blank. And he would not emerge a hollow imitation of himself. Summoning what remained of his will, Hades resisted the current. No. He would not drink, would not fade. He held his memories tight, every image of darkness and light that made him who he was – his crown and throne, his pride and bitterness, even the face of Persephone on the day he first brought her to his realm. Persephone… Her name rang like a bell in the void. He remembered her gentle smile, the sunlight in her hair as she walked the asphodel meadows. She had been the one ray of warmth in his dark kingdom, a queen by his side for which he had nearly risked war with Demeter to claim. The thought of losing her memory was more terrifying than any monster. Hades's soul trembled, fighting to keep Persephone's face clear in his mind as Lethe's waters lapped at the edges of his consciousness. Little by little, the seductive pull receded. The god's indomitable will held firm; the river of forgetfulness hissed and flowed on without him, seeking easier prey. Hades had refused to submit to oblivion.
In that moment of victory over forgetfulness, when he had proven even the tide of Lethe could not strip him of himself, something in the cosmos seemed to shift. Through the void, Hades became aware of new presences – strange, solemn, and ancient beyond measure. Three figures, indistinct but powerful, seemed to hover at the edge of perception. They did not speak, yet he felt their decree ripple through the darkness. The Moirai – the Fates – had taken note of this soul that would not fade. He felt rather than saw Clotho at her spinning wheel, drawing out a new thread of life; Lachesis measuring it with cold precision; and Atropos, shears in hand, hesitating for once before cutting the lifeline. Not yet, Hades sensed the eldest Fate whisper. This one's thread has more to unravel. Indeed, instead of snipping his lifeline short, the Fates began to weave again. They worked quickly, weaving the thread of Hades' existence into a new tapestry, a new design. He did not know what they intended – was it truly reincarnation, a second chance at life? Or some elaborate punishment or reward? Whatever the case, he felt the tug strengthen, drawing him forward, onward… somewhere else. The void around him wasn't so empty now; it crackled with unseen energy, humming with possibility. Hades's formless soul began to coalesce, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. He was being pulled into the loom of life, toward a new fate he could not yet fathom.
All at once, sensation returned – overwhelming and raw. Hades felt warmth enclosing him, a rhythmic thumping noise, the heartbeat of a giant presence all around. He tried to open his eyes, but they were pressed closed in a tight space. Panic flared for an instant; was he trapped? It felt as though he were inside a living prison. The last time he'd been conscious in such confinement was… inside his father Kronos, devoured along with his siblings ages ago. The memory sent a jolt of fear and fury through him. He thrashed instinctively – and something responded. The walls around him convulsed and a great force began to push. He was being expelled, squeezed out from the warm cocoon that held him. Hades realized with awe what was happening: he was being born. He braced himself as best he could with no limbs yet fully under his control. A moment of pressure, a tunnel of blinding light and cold, and then – freedom.
The god's first new breath came as a wail, a protest at the shock of exposure. Cool air rushed into infant lungs; his small body trembled uncontrollably with the sudden chill. Hades forced his eyes open, blinking against the brightness. His vision was blurry and muddled – shapes and colors swimming without form. He could make out the vague outline of a chamber around him, stone walls lit by the gentle glow of oil lamps. Before him, a large shape moved, closing in. Soft warmth enveloped him as he was lifted and pressed against something delightfully soothing – a woman's body, cradling him to her chest. He felt strong arms supporting his tiny form and the plush sensation of a blanket or robe swaddling him. Divine energy pulsed from the one who held him, a comforting aura he knew instinctively. He had felt this presence long, long ago.
"Hades…" whispered a gentle voice above him. The sound rang in his ears – his own name, spoken with such tenderness that the newborn god could not help but fall silent. Blinking, Hades peered up through infant eyes at the face of the woman holding him. His sight cleared for just an instant, and he beheld a visage out of legend. She was majestic and maternal, with eyes like molten gold and hair cascading in dark waves crowned with a simple diadem. Her expression was one of profound relief and love as she gazed down at him. Rhea. It could be no other. This was Rhea, Queen of the Titans, his mother from a lifetime eons past. Hades had seen her only briefly in his previous life – snatches of memory from his earliest moments, before Kronos had swallowed him whole. Now here she was, flesh and blood, cradling him once more. A complex swell of emotions washed over him: the instinctual, childlike contentment of being held, mixed with the wise sorrow of an adult son who knows the fate that will befall this loving mother and her children. For now, though, he simply savored the warmth of Rhea's embrace. He felt her divine aura envelop his small form like a shield. In her arms, he was safe. Despite all that had happened – his death, the void, the struggle to retain himself – Hades felt a calm he hadn't realized he craved. A tiny sigh escaped his lips as he nestled against Rhea. To his surprise, he felt a wetness at the corner of his eyes. If this body wished to cry, it was from relief, not pain.
Rhea brushed a giant fingertip gently across his cheek, wiping away the moisture. "My precious son," she murmured, voice hardly more than a breath. Hades could hear the tremble in her tone – the echo of loss for the other children she had birthed and surrendered to Kronos's paranoia. He realized with a pang that he was the first of her offspring she had actually been able to hold like this; in the timeline he remembered, Hades had been born and immediately snatched away, devoured by his father. Rhea had never had the chance to properly meet her child then. Now, in this altered turn of fate, she dared a moment of tenderness. The Titaness rocked him softly, and Hades felt a radiant pulse of her power flow into him, mingling with his own. His newborn body glowed faintly in response – a golden aura mixed with the shadowy undertone of his soul. Perhaps Rhea sensed something unusual in her infant son, for she held him back a little to search his eyes. Hades gazed up at her, and for a heartbeat Rhea looked startled, as if she glimpsed in his dark-grey eyes an awareness beyond a typical babe. He tried to relax his expression, cooing softly as an ordinary newborn might. Whatever she thought she saw, Rhea smiled, convincing herself it was simply motherly fancy. She drew him close again, humming an ancient lullaby. Hades allowed himself a moment to simply be an infant in his mother's arms, free of burdens. In that quiet chamber atop Mount Othrys, swaddled in love, the reborn god felt something kindle within him – a new strength, a fragile hope. He sensed that the power of rebirth had not only restored him but altered him in subtle ways. There was a warmth in his divine core now that hadn't been there before – not just the cold sovereignty of the dead, but something else. Perhaps a touch of Rhea's own nurturing essence, or a spark of renewal gifted by the Fates. Whatever it was, it coursed through his small body, mingling with the familiar darkness of his old self. Hades could feel new divinity budding inside him like a seedling, waiting for time to help it grow. He did not yet know what form these new powers would take, but in that moment, he promised himself he would use them, when the time came, to protect those he loved and to never fall helpless again.
The tender moment was shattered by the sudden crash of doors flung open. Rhea's lullaby died on her lips. Hades felt his mother's arms tense around him. A cold dread swept into the chamber on the heels of the intruder, dispelling the warmth. Heavy footsteps echoed as a towering figure cloaked in shadow strode inside. Even without clear vision, Hades knew who it was immediately – the air itself recoiled from the presence of Kronos, King of the Titans. A familiar prickle of terror crept down Hades's infant spine, an echo of that first life's unimaginable trauma. Father... Rhea drew herself up, cradling Hades tightly against her breast as if to shield him. He could feel her heart hammering in her chest. "K-Kronos," she greeted, trying to keep her voice steady. Hades could just make out her face; she forced a strained smile. "My king... our son is here. We have a child." Rhea's attempt at normalcy rang hollow in the tense silence.
Kronos stepped forward into the lamplight, and Hades saw his father's visage loom above. The Titan was titanic indeed – tall, muscular, and permeated with an aura of absolute authority. Kronos's hair hung like a mantle of night around a face stern and unyielding. His eyes were shards of obsidian flecked with gold, beautiful and utterly pitiless. Across his bronzed skin ran faint scars, ancient marks from the war where he had overthrown his father Uranus so long ago. In one massive hand, Kronos gripped an object that glinted wickedly – an adamantine scythe with a curved blade, the very weapon he had used to castrate and depose Uranus in ages past. Seeing that blade, Hades felt a jolt of instinctual fear. It was a farmer's tool turned into a symbol of cosmic horror – and in Kronos's ruthless grasp, it had harvested gods before. Kronos's gaze was fixed on Rhea and the bundle in her arms. For a fleeting moment, Hades saw something almost soft in his father's expression as he regarded the newborn – curiosity, even a touch of wonder. Kronos reached out a calloused hand and gently brushed aside the blanket, revealing Hades's tiny form fully. "A son," the Titan king rumbled, his voice low and resonant like distant thunder. Hades peered up at his father, scarcely daring to breathe. He felt Rhea's grip on him tighten protectively. "Yes, our first-born… a strong boy," Rhea said, attempting pride, though her voice quivered. Kronos's face was unreadable. He studied the child – this quiet infant who strangely did not cry in his presence. Perhaps Kronos expected wailing; instead, he found Hades staring back with solemn, unblinking eyes the color of storm clouds. The silence stretched. Rhea swallowed, mustering courage. "What shall we name him, my love?" she asked softly, a desperate bid to impose normalcy. Hades could feel his mother's arms trembling. Kronos's dark eyes narrowed slightly. "Name?" he echoed, as if the concept were foreign. His gaze bore into the infants, and Hades felt an oppressive weight, like time itself pressing down. Did Kronos sense anything of his true nature? The Titan's lips curled into a hard line. "Hades," he declared at last, voice cutting through the air. Hades felt the name wrap around him like fate made sound. So, it was the same as before; even in this new life, he would carry his old name. In the Titan's tongue the word meant "the Unseen", an irony perhaps, for Kronos would soon make his son unseen in truth.
At the utterance of the name, Rhea closed her eyes, whether in relief or despair it was hard to tell. She bowed her head over her child. "Hades," she repeated softly, kissing his forehead. But the tender scene was short-lived. Kronos's expression had already shifted – the brief glimmer of paternal interest winking out, replaced by the cold fire of fear and determination. Hades knew that look all too well. Prophecy. Kronos was recalling the dreadful prophecy that haunted him: that one of his children was fated to overthrow him, just as he had overthrown Uranus. Paranoia etched itself into the Titan's face; his jaw clenched. Without warning, he extended his arms. "Give him to me," Kronos commanded, a flash of urgency in his voice. Rhea recoiled instinctively, turning slightly away. "Please... he is but a helpless babe," she pleaded, her tone anguished. The great Titan's eyes hardened. "Now, Rhea." His tone brooked no argument. Hades felt his mother's entire frame shiver. She looked down at her infant son, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "Forgive me," she whispered so faintly only Hades heard it. No – Hades wanted to cry out, understanding exactly what would follow. But an infant's vocal cords could not form words, and his body was too weak to resist what came next.
Kronos seized the child from Rhea's arms with a swiftness that belied his colossal size. Hades felt the world whirl as he was lifted high, dangling in the Titan's grasp. Panicked, he squirmed, tiny hands reaching back toward the safety of his mother, but she was already stumbling away, weeping silently into her hands. The newborn god found himself at the mercy of his giant father. Kronos held him up, inspecting him one last time. Hades locked eyes with Kronos and saw madness there – a desperate, terrified resolve. This was not done out of hatred for the child, but out of Kronos's all-consuming fear of fate. The prophecy had poisoned his love; paranoia eclipsed paternal instinct. "You will not be my doom," Kronos growled, voice trembling with fervor. Hades felt the Titan's hot breath and caught a glimpse of those fierce eyes one heartbeat before it happened. Kronos opened his mouth wide – impossibly wide – and Hades saw darkness and the gleam of teeth. In that instant, dangling over the gaping maw of his father, the infant god's mind flashed with wry, grim understanding. Devoured at birth... just as before. The cycle was repeating itself, fate inexorable. But this time, Hades was aware. This time, he would remember. I will endure, he vowed silently, newborn heart pounding. And when the time comes, I will rise again. He mustered every ounce of courage in his tiny form and ceased his frightened wriggling. Small and helpless though he was, Hades faced his father's insanity with eerily calm acceptance, eyes unblinking. Kronos hesitated only a fraction of a second – perhaps unnerved by the strange quiet of the child – then he acted. With one swift motion, the King of Titans placed his first-born son into his mouth and swallowed him whole.
All light and sound vanished in an instant. Hades was plunged into utter darkness, a smothering, living darkness far different from the peaceful void between death and life. The world became a tight, churning prison as the Titan's throat constricted around the tiny god. There was a sensation of falling, then weightlessness in stifling heat. Hades did not scream; the shock of the event rendered him silent and still. In the blackness, as he tumbled into the depth of Kronos's being, only one thought burned in Hades's mind: I am Hades. I remain. The Lord of the Underworld had defied