Wrath "Rise of the Fallen"

By the time they arrived at Olympus, Hades was unconscious and slung across Cerberus’ back. Zeus swayed a bit at the main gates. He felt so infinitely tired, and he knew it was from using the Grace that Reema had given to him. Olympus looked battle worn, but stood battle ready. Guards manned the ramparts, stood by the doors, and patrolled the grounds. The defensive posture was welcome, but different, a state of readiness tinged slightly with whipped-dog wariness.

Apollo met them at the main gates, stopping short at the sight of the three-headed hound everyone had heard of but few had actually seen. “Put Hades here, Father,” Apollo said, gesturing to a long marble bench at the edge of the courtyard.

“Down,” Zeus said to Cerberus, who instantly went to the ground. The Lord of Olympus eased his brother from the back of the hound and gently set him down on the bench. Hades’ face was sunken, waxy, feverish. His dark hair was soaked in sweat.

“What happened?” Apollo asked.

“Demon’s spear,” Zeus said. “Went clean through.”

Apollo grunted. He pulled Hades’ chest plate off, and used a small blade to cut away the tunic around the wound. He gasped. “Maybe clean isn’t the right word.”

A putrid greenish-yellow rime had formed around the ragged opening. Deep blue lines radiated away from the gash—not a discoloration, but plump vine-like tendrils, growing, it seemed, like a plant reaching for sustenance.

“Ugh, smells horrid,” Apollo said. He closed his eyes and held his hands over the wound. Golden light began to glow as if a small sun had just arisen under his hands. The light fell like a flaxen mist to spread across Hades’ torso. Hades convulsed and the yellow glow wavered and began to darken liken the meat of a fruit turning bad. Apollo snapped his hands back with a small cry as if burned. He looked at Zeus with fear in his blue eyes, his head shaking. “I can’t help him.”

“Get him inside,” Zeus said. He hailed four guards to assist. “Take the Lord of the Underworld to the parlor off the throne room,” Apollo said to the guards. To Zeus he said, “We’re all in the parlor for now. The throne room remains unfit for habitation.” The Sun God rose.

“I’ll be along in a moment,” Zeus said. He watched Apollo follow Hades into the palace, then walked to the edge of the courtyard and climbed the stairs to the ramparts. The guards seemed to realize that the Lord of Olympus wanted to be left alone and drifted away to keep watch elsewhere along the crenellated wall. All looked so peaceful below him, and Zeus recalled the feeling he had that morning not so long ago when Hades first came to him with his concerns. He closed his eyes.

Reema… I need your—

“I am here.”

Zeus spun around, staff rising. Reema stood behind him on the stone rampart. Her black hair hung in complex plaits, draping over her wings, which were folded in stately repose behind her head. Her purple eyes flashed with a clarity and keenness that Zeus did not himself feel. Her armor, although still mirror-like in places, sported smears, blemishes, scuffs, and dings, including one huge dent across the chest, all telling a tale of some battle hard fought. Her broadsword was sheathed, and her gold-hilted dagger with its wavy black blade hung from her belt. No flames, no glow, but a sense of readiness radiated from her.

“Hades is hurt,” Zeus said.

“Hades is dying.” Reema turned and looked back toward the palace, once pristine white plaster now shattered in places, scorched here and there. Zeus now saw that the feathers of her wings were mussed and the shield slung between them was as battered as her armor. “You are exhausted,” she said. “That is what happens when you augment your Grace with the Fell Stone when you have little understanding of or experience with either. When you hardly understand yourself. You’re trying to do too much too quickly. Like children. Like Nephilim.”

Before Zeus could respond, he found himself at the entry to the parlor. Many of his fellow Olympians were gathered there. All eyes turned toward him, and then to Reema. All but Apollo’s, kneeling before Hades, who lay on a divan trembling with a wild palsy, awash in a sheen of sweat. The blue darkness now spread across his torso like a twilight storm. Apollo looked over his shoulder with a helpless expression.

Reema stepped over to Apollo and placed a hand on his shoulder. He stood with a grateful smile and stepped aside. She knelt down and laid her hands on his torso and then spread her wings. Zeus was caressed with a gentle kiss of air and bathed in a soft white light. The light blushed to pale lavender, then lilac, then plum, and Zeus felt as if the utter exhaustion chewing at his every bone and sinew drained away.

“This wound,” Reema said quietly. “A spear?” She nodded as if agreeing with her own observation. “Hell’s weapons are of the finest materials. The hardest woods, the strongest metals. Forged by masters who would rival Hephaestus. And they’re forged with hate and despair… with filth and unending sorrow. Few weapons in the multiverse can rival the damage they deliver. That Hades still lives is only about his angelic side.”

Hades convulsed once, twice, then his feet kicked and twitched. He groaned, bucked again, and cried out as his body locked into a spine-bending spasm. He fell limp and silent. “He must sleep,” Reema said, folding her wings. Her eyes began to dim to a more natural light, but still seemed extra-bright violet. “Then eat. Prodigiously. Meats and greens. And water. A lot of water. Is there somewhere more comfortable he can be?”

Apollo said, “I will see that he is taken to his private chambers. I’ll remain with him to be sure that he is administered to as you requested.”

“He will need more than food and drink when he awakes,” Zeus said. “Demeter is dead. And he watched her die.”

Hera gasped, shining copper curls swinging as she nearly fell backward on her mountain of cushions, shock rippling across her face and wetting her hazel eyes. Athena, heavily armored in strangely agile-looking layers of colorfully enameled scalloped mail and plate of her own design and made by Hephaestus, shot to her feet and drew her sword, looking for a fight that wasn’t there. Her jade eyes flashed, and Zeus laid a calming hand on Athena’s shoulder. He could actually feel her whole body quivering. “I know, I know,” he said, easing her sword arm down. “We all loved Demeter.” Athena gave him a grim look that twisted her beautiful face, with her high cheekbones, almond eyes, and lush lips into something dark and fierce.

“Put the sword away,” Reema said “You’ll have things to stick it in soon enough. A lot of things. Dahak’s armies are marching. Everywhere.”

“And we lost the Underworld,” Zeus said, his voice shaking a bit and shame burning through him.

“Yes, Hades’ kingdom has fallen,” Reema said, “but more to the point, it has been breached.”

“Breached?” Ares asked. He too was armored and ready for war, but in more familiar, heavy-duty stuff than Athena’s peculiar setup.

Reema turned to the bellicose young Ares and made sure that everyone knew she was unimpressed with his size and warrior’s bearing. “Hell is on the march.”

“So what?” Ares snapped.

“So everything.” Reema smiled blandly and turned to Zeus. “So far, Lucifer has not yet been released from his prison. All is not yet lost. But Dayhak and Belum, and now Maw, are all extremely focused on that. Freeing Lucifer and the rest of his generals. And you Olympians, you Nephilim, must likewise be extremely focused on stopping that.”

“Neph—what?” Ares said.

“What about the countless waves of… monsters I saw coming through that… whatever it was, gate, or breach, as you called it? We just ignore that?” Zeus stalked the parlor, feeling the same kind of frustration that Athena still expressed even with her sword now sheathed.

Reema cast a long, slow look about the room. Her lips were upturned, but it was as tepid a smile as Zeus had ever seen. “Those are foot soldiers, and, yes, some are quite adept warriors, but they cannot be your first concern. Leave them to trusted others. Now is the time for all of the Creator’s beings to come together and assume their appropriate roles. Playtime, if you will, is over.”

“But there are thousands of them,” Zeus said. “Tens of thousands.”

“Hundreds of thousands,” Reema said. “More.”

“What is this?” Hera asked. “What is happening?”

“Trusted others?” Ares snapped, stepping in front of and stepping on his queen. “Outside this room, I can count the number of others I trust on one hand.”

Reema nodded vigorously. “That is exactly the essence of our circumstances. Our ability to prevail hinges on our ability to develop an enduring trust. Your current understanding of trust relies on tit for tat and substantive returns on your ‘investments.’ No more. If you expect to survive this existential threat, you will have to abandon some of what you have long taken as common sense and well-established truths. Truth does not necessarily equate to trust. It is time to embrace faith. Faith that others can discern the difference between good and bad. Faith that there are powers out there stronger than even the gifts of the so-called Gods. The power to unite. Truly unite. The power to not just look past differences—differences on all levels—but to embrace differences, embrace others and build trust where maybe none exists at all. Dayhak is counting on your failure to do this. He is counting on your history.”

“Show me this Dayhak,” Ares growled. “I will teach him all about trust. I will treat him how to trust his fear.”

“Lucifer,” Reema continued, with a look like she knew so much more than anyone else in the room, “Satan, trades in the desolation of trust, in uncertainty and cynicism, in the anxieties that gnaw and gnaw at the pit of your gut.”

Hermes strolled into the parlor as if it was any other day. He pulled up, slammed his hands into his hips, and looked around with feigned annoyance. “Really? This is the reception I get? Frowns and sourness?”

“We all love you and all, Hermes,” Ares said, redirecting his angry glare from Reema to the fleet one, “but you might be a little behind on current events.”

“Perhaps you are, my belligerent friend,” Hermes said with a broad grin and wild eyes. His attention slid to Reema. He looked the angel up and down, made a silent assessment of some sort, and shrugged.

“What do you mean?” Zeus asked.

Hermes tossed a thumb over his shoulder, then shrugged again, this time with slow drama and a mug of a face. Zeus marched out of the palace with Reema and the rest of the Olympians in tow. He climbed once again to the ramparts and looked out over the wall. Hermes stepped up beside him. “I’ve been busy,” he whispered to Zeus.

Zeus’ jaw dropped. Every road to Olympus was packed. Infantry and horsemen, wagon after wagon after wagon. Banners. Every color, every combination of colors, countless sigils. And people. Also of all colors. Satyrs and more… things that Zeus had only heard stories about. As far as an eye could see. And Zeus’ eyes saw far. All the way to the foot of Olympus and out onto the plains and into the forests.

“See?” Hermes said, patting the Lord of Olympus on his shoulder until the white-bearded Greek flicked an annoyed look at him. Reema spoke: “This is a good start, yes. But it is just a start.” Zeus snapped his head toward the angel, his annoyance brimming over to a simmering fury. He’d had just about enough of her condescension. “Before you lash out at me, Zeus,” she said, cutting him off, “it is critical for you to remember that you have no idea what you’re dealing with. The absolute power of Lucifer. The destructive force of his Legions. You just don’t know. Not yet. You also have no idea what you’re doing with your Grace. The potential power you wield. Not yet.”

“But at least we’re trying,” he said through gritted teeth. He knew the other Olympians and even some guards heard this dressing down.

“Yes,” Reema said gently, and although it should’ve sounded condescending, it didn’t. “There is a saying about fools rushing in where—”

“Are we ready yet?”

Zeus and Reema turned toward the gruff voice coming from the courtyard. He saw a roaring lion draped over scuffed leather and battered plate, a huge sword and thrashed lion’s head shield. Hercules looked up at them, hands on his hips. A half-dozen Lions, men nearly as big as Hercules, stood arrayed around him, swords drawn, as alert and ready for a ruckus as if they stood at the center of a battleground. Hercules saluted his father with a big smile. His smile flattened into something grim and deadly. “Well, are we going to take this fight to them?”