The Taste Of Divinity

Δ Ε Κ Α

Z E U' S P A L A C E, M O U N T O L Y M P U S.

He felt eyes on him.

Eyes that were a myriad colours and darkened with a myriad emotions. Eyes that dilated when the air of sheer power he emanated collided with the bodies attached to them. Eyes that were burning holes into his dark robes, robes he garbed himself in the few times he chose to attend these events. They seemed to prefer him in wine dark himations, in azurites, amethysts and rubies. They seemed to enjoy watching the scowls and the glares paint themselves on his face, finding something to whisper about when they thought he couldn't hear.

Truthfully, he rather enjoyed the slight falter in conversation when his diadem caught the glare of the thunder that illuminated the room and the golden myrtle flowers gleamed, blinding anyone who dared to stare directly at them.

He held his head high as he moved past the known strangers, ignoring the whispers and the pointed stares that followed the echo of his every step masterfully.

It was a good distraction.

Good enough to help him forget the siren and the vaguely familiar face of his father that had greeted him the minute he'd strolled inside his brother's elegant palace of clouds. He always forgot not to spare glances at the frescoes decorating the walls. At least, that's what he told himself. In the painting, Kronos lifted his arms to the skies, celebrating a victory that did not belong to him as a crown lied by his feet, broken, in three equal pieces.

The cruel look in his eyes had disrupted his long, decisive stride, as it always did.

Hades had let out a sigh then, a piece of his soul abandoning him. He turned his eyes to the figure by his father's side and there she was, the deceiving Rhea, who gazed away from her tyrannical husband and hid her lack of shame behind a smile. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, even if, in the end, she'd chosen to stand in the wrong side of history. She could not be blamed. After all, love had always been her torture and her war.

A few steps away, beyond the haunting figures of the past, a man, younger and less worn by the endless years stood next to his brothers, holding an ichor-stained silver helmet.

"You've grown old." The King had commented mockingly, earning a glare from the familiar figure on the wall when he barked a laugh that echoed around the hall.

During that whole time, he refused to look at the images of endless war, the nights in which dawn refused to break and the pain that never received a colour the same way he refused to let his eyes linger on the knowing face of Demeter, choosing instead to lower his gaze and whisper a couple of incoherent words before walking away.

❁❁

Now, as he stood in the middle of the grand hall, he caught one of the muses brushing away sun coloured strands from Apollon's forehead as his fingers caressed the strings of his golden lyre with utter care. The other Muses, too, clung to him, touching, always touching, always laughing. As it was to be expected, the young God enjoyed the attention immensely. His eyes were closed, long, aureate lashes falling tragically on high cheekbones, the embodiment of boyish male beauty.

He was the only one who did not pay attention to the change in the atmosphere, the electricity that seemed to be hovering over them, too lost in his world of notes to notice.

"Lovely, isn't it?" The Queen of the Gods breathed as she materialised beside Hades, awe lacing her words. "The way the notes pour out of him, the way he moves to the rhythm. It almost seems like he is the instrument."