Chapter 22: The Aftermath
Milly’s knees hit the sharp shale beside Y/n, the impact barely registering. Her hands fluttered uselessly over the ruin of Y/n’s midsection, wanting to staunch the flow but terrified of causing more damage. The dark, violet ichor was everywhere, hot and slick against her palms, welling up through the torn fabric and the terrible, puckered wound beneath.
“No, no, no, no,” the word was a breathless chant, shoved out between her teeth. She cradled Y/n’s head, tipping it back to keep her airway clear. The short, dark hair was matted with dust and blood. Y/n’s skin had taken on the pallor of old marble, her glowing green eyes dim and unfocused, staring at the bruised sky.
Hades was a vortex of chilling darkness. He stood over Herakles, his bident leveled at the demigod’s throat. The very substance of the Field of Grey seemed to recoil from his fury, the whispers of the dead falling silent.
“A cheat. A coward’s blow, after terms were met,” Hades’s voice didn’t roar now. It was a low, seismic tremor that vibrated in Milly’s bones. “You think the rules of heroes apply in my house? You are a guest here. A disrespectful one.”
The messenger’s form flickered anxiously nearby. “Lord Hades, the victory was declared–”
“She is bleeding out on the ground!” Hades’s head snapped toward the light, his eyes like furious coals. “Summon Asclepius. Now. Or I will take my brother’s favorite son apart, piece by eternal piece, and let his soul explain the delay to his father.”
Before the messenger could respond, the air split with a scent so profoundly out of place it made Milly dizzy: jasmine, wet earth, and ripe citrus. A light not of judgment or the underworld, but of a clear, penetrating dawn, erupted beside them.
Persephone appeared. Not in a gown of flowers, but in simple trousers and a tunic, her rose-gold hair tied back sharply, as if she’d been interrupted in her gardens. Her impossible beauty was etched with a terrifying, cold rage. She didn’t look at Herakles, or Hades, or the messenger.
She saw only her daughter.
She was at Y/n’s other side in an instant, brushing Milly’s trembling hands aside without force but with unarguable authority. “Let me see.”
Her hands, usually coaxing life from soil, pressed against the horrific wound. A soft, green-gold light emanated from her palms, sinking into Y/n’s flesh. The furious gush of ichor slowed to a trickle, then to a seep. The ragged edges of the wound began to knit, but it was a sluggish, laborious process, as if the injury itself was fighting back.
“It’s not just a puncture,” Persephone said, her voice tight. “He twisted it. Torn things inside. Things that shouldn’t be torn.” She looked up, and her gaze found Herakles. The demigod, for all his strength, took a half-step back. The Queen of the Underworld’s wrath was a quiet, growing thing. “You poisoned the victory. You stained your own legend with this.”
Herakles’s jaw set. “The terms said combat ends with submission or death. She had my submission. I never gave mine. A technicality.”
“A cowardice,” Hades hissed.
Milly wasn’t listening to the divine bickering. She leaned over Y/n, her tears falling freely now, making clean tracks through the dust on Y/n’s face. “Hey. Stay with me. You stubborn, beautiful idiot, stay right here.” She wiped her bloody hand on her jeans and gently cupped Y/n’s cheek. “You won, okay? You did it. So you don’t get to check out now. The deal’s done. I’m permanent. You have to… you have to be here to be annoyed about it.”
Y/n’s eyelids fluttered. A low, pained sound escaped her lips. Her eyes, hazy with shock, searched and found Milly’s. The ghost of something—defiance, recognition—flickered in their depths. Her lips, pale and cracked, moved.
Milly bent closer, her ear almost to Y/n’s mouth. The scent of blood and her spring-fresh shampoo was a horrifying combination.
The whisper was as dry as dead leaves. “Told you… I’d protect you.”
It was so simple. So infuriatingly matter-of-fact. A fresh sob ripped from Milly’s throat, equal parts anguish and a wild, desperate love. “Yeah, well, protecting you is my job right now, so shut up and let your mum work.”
A sound that might have been the attempt at a laugh, choked and wet, came from Y/n before her eyes slid shut again, but her breathing, while shallow, seemed more steady.
Persephone’s healing light pulsed. She was murmuring under her breath, words in a language older than Greek, calling things by their true, growing names. The damage was profound, a violation not just of flesh but of divine essence. It would take time.
The ground trembled, not from Hades’s anger, but from a new presence. The air thickened, tasting of oregano and clean linen. A man knelt opposite Persephone, materializing as if he’d always been there. He was lean, middle-aged, with intelligent, weary eyes and hands that looked capable of splitting a man open or sewing him shut. Asclepius. He carried a simple leather bag.
He glanced at the wound, at Persephone’s work, and gave a curt nod. “The Queen has stabilized the flow. The rest is mechanics.” He opened his bag, pulling out implements that gleamed silver and obsidian. He didn’t ask for permission. “This will hurt her. She must be held still.”
Hades was there in an instant, his large, shadowy hands gently pinning Y/n’s shoulders to the ground. His face, seen from this angle, was stripped of all its godly menace. It was just a father’s face, etched with a fear as old as time.
“Do it,” he said.
Asclepius worked with a brutal, graceful efficiency. Milly had to look away, focusing on Y/n’s face, whispering nonsense about Sydney beaches and her stupid dissertation and how Y/n still owed her a proper tour that didn’t end with someone getting gutted.
Through the tether forged by the pomegranate seed, Milly felt it. Not the physical pain, which was a distant, muted throb, but a profound inner sinking, a cooling. Like a fire banked too low.
“She’s fading,” Milly whispered, panic spiking again.
Persephone’s hand left the wound, now neatly sutured with thread that glimmered with a faint light, and rested on Y/n’s forehead. “Not fading. Conserving. Her power is retreating to the core, to heal. It is a deep sleep. She must not be moved.” She finally looked up at her husband. “She comes to the palace. To her own rooms.”
Hades’s gaze swung back to Herakles and the hovering messenger. The argument had not paused. “This trial is void,” Hades stated, finality in every syllable. “Your champion violated its spirit after its conclusion. The mortal’s fate is no longer subject to Olympian arbitration. She is under my protection. As is my daughter. You,” he said to Herakles, “will leave my domain. Now. And carry this message to my brother: the next messenger he sends will be returned to him in a jar.”
The messenger pulsed with agitated light. “Lord Hades, Zeus will demand–”
“Zeus,” Persephone interrupted, rising to her feet, her hands still stained with their daughter’s blood, “can demand into the empty air. He allowed this farce. He can answer for the result.”
Herakles bent, slowly, and retrieved his club. He looked at Y/n’s still form, then at Milly, who glared back at him with raw, mortal hatred. He nodded once, a gesture that held no apology, only a bleak acknowledgment of a messy job done. He turned and walked back toward the tear of golden light, which swallowed him whole.
The messenger vanished a moment later, doubtless hurrying to deliver the unstable report.
Silence reclaimed the Field of Grey, deeper now, weighted with aftermath.
Hades gently slid his arms under Y/n, lifting her as if she were made of glass. The obsidian gauntlet had melted away from her hand, which lay limp against his arm. Milly scrambled up, her legs shaky, unwilling to let Y/n out of her sight.
Persephone put a hand on her shoulder. The touch was warm, solid. “Come, child. You’re shivering.”
It was only then Milly realized she was. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving a vast, hollow cold.
Hades began to walk, not toward any visible path, but into the wall of the gorge itself. The stone parted for him like a curtain, revealing a smooth, dark corridor lit by gently glowing moss. The palace of the Underworld, opening a private door.
Milly followed, stumbling once on the uneven ground. Persephone’s hand steadied her.
As they passed from the bruised sky of the Field into the quiet, subterranean dim, Milly looked back one last time. At the patch of darkened shale where Y/n had fallen. At the emptiness.
Then she turned and followed the fading light of Persephone’s hair, and the quiet, steady sound of Hades’s footsteps carrying his daughter home. The argument with Olympus was not over. The healing was just beginning. But for now, the only thing that mattered was the slow, steady rise and fall of Y/n’s chest against her father’s arm, and the fragile, furious hope beating in Milly’s own.