The God of Underworld-Chapter 56 - 11: A Father’s Love

By the quiet shores of the River Styx, the Underworld was basked in a rare moment of serenity.

The current flowed lazily, its dark waters reflecting the glow of the realm’s ever-hanging twilight.

Hades sat comfortably in a sleek black stone chair, carved by his own hand, his elbow resting on the armrest, chin propped lazily against his palm.

Beside him stood the ever-stoic Styx, her silver hair cascading like moonlight as she gently fanned him with a broad obsidian leaf, though it was more out of formality than necessity—gods didn’t sweat, nor do they feel hot or cold.

Her expression was as flat as the river she ruled.

"Any harder, Styx," Hades muttered dryly, "and I might be blown into Tartarus."

Styx didn’t answer. She simply blinked once, unimpressed.

On his other side, Hera reclined on a smaller cushioned chair, daintily feeding him peeled grapes—though the Underworld’s version of grapes were silvery and glowed faintly.

She plucked one and teasingly hovered it near his lips.

"Open up, King of the Dead," she said with a smile. "You’ve been working so hard you might shrivel into bones."

"I’m already halfway there," Hades grumbled, eating the grape anyway. "The bureaucracy down here is more terrifying than the Titans."

A short distance away, Demeter knelt in the soil, her hands stained with dark earth.

Minthe knelt beside her, equally absorbed in the task of carefully planting a line of newly thriving mint plants—the first flora to ever take root in the Underworld.

"And you said this wouldn’t work," Minthe said proudly, nudging Demeter with her elbow.

Demeter rolled her eyes but smiled. "Only because I’ve tried for decades and failed. You, my dear, may have a greener thumb than the goddess of harvest herself."

Minthe beamed. "Maybe I’ll start a garden down here, and I’ll call it—"

"Minthe and Hades Love Garden?" Demeter whispered.

Minthe blushed red, as she playfully punched Demeter on the shoulders.

Demeter laughed, before brushing a dirt on Minthe’s cheek. This annoyed Minthe who grabbed a handfull of dirt and threw it at Demeter’s face.

"..."

Demeter wiped off the dirt from her face and smiled gently.

Minthe gulped. She shouldn’t have done that.

"W-Wait, calm down, let’s talk about this—"

Off to the side, Hecate stood silently with arms crossed, watching the two plant lovers play around with dirt.

"You two should add nightshade," she commented. "Something poisonous. It’ll add flair."

Minthe and Demeter stopped, turning towards Hecate.

"...Only you would suggest that," Minthe replied. Demeter nodded beside her.

"Of course," Hecate said, cracking a rare smile. "This is the Underworld. We don’t do daisies."

Hades chuckled under his breath. "If we do, they’ll have skulls and screaming."

Demeter looked up. "Don’t tempt me, brother. I could make that happen."

Just as they all started to laugh—finally enjoying a sliver of peace in the shadowed realm—a divine spirit came barreling down the slope leading to the riverside, his robes in disarray and golden sandals flapping loudly.

"Lord Hades! Lord Hades!" he cried out, nearly tripping over a root.

In his hands, he held a shimmering golden scroll, its seal blazing with the sigil of Olympus.

Styx, without turning her head, moved slightly to block the rushing spirit. "Slow down. You’re making waves in my river."

The divine spirit skidded to a halt, panting. "A—a letter, my Lord. From Olympus. A divine spirit handed it to me at the gates."

Hades groaned, rubbing his temples. "It’s always Olympus. I’ve only just managed to clear my desk from the last mountain of complaints."

Hera gracefully took the scroll from the spirit and broke the seal.

"Shall I read it aloud?" she asked.

Hades, already half-reclined, waved her off. "If it’s Zeus whining again, just toss it into the river."

Styx frowned. "Don’t pollute my river, please."

Hera cleared her throat theatrically.

"To Hades, King of the Underworld," she began, "you are hereby invited to attend the upcoming trial of the traitor and thief, Prometheus. The proceedings shall commence on Olympus in three days’ time. Your presence is both requested and expected. Signed, Zeus."

Hades sat up straighter, blinking. "Prometheus? Already caught?"

"I guess the old Titan didn’t run fast enough," Hecate muttered. "Or maybe he didn’t run at all."

"So the flame was given to the mortals already?" Hades murmured.

Minthe looked at him, "Lord Hades, do you think the humans will be okay? It was only thanks to Lord Prometheus that they can still survive."

"They’ll struggle," he said, standing slowly. "But they’ll rise. That’s what they do."

Hera wasn’t so sure about that. The number of humans dying didn’t decrease, in fact, there seems to be more death than in the past.

Hecate tilted her head. "So, are you going?"

Hades nodded once. "Yes. I also have... questions for Prometheus. Things only he can answer."

"My lord, the underworld can’t do without you for long." Styx stated, her voice like cold metal.

Hades paused, and nodded. "Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I should just send Hera? After all, she’s still part of the council."

Demeter laughed. ’Come now, Hades. You’ve built an empire down here. Surely it can survive a few days without your brooding presence."

"Maybe," he said. "But let’s be honest—it won’t be as dramatic."

They all chuckled again, the warmth of their rare gathering making the Underworld feel, for just a moment, like a place of life rather than death.

*

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Within the cold and cavernous halls beneath Olympus, where divine judgment was sealed behind layers of immortal stone, Prometheus sat quietly behind adamantine bars.

The chains that bound him were forged by the Cyclops themselves—wrought from celestial metals that no Titan, god, or spirit could break.

His body bore the wear of punishment. His frame was gaunt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, and his once brilliant amber eyes dulled with fatigue.

Yet, even in such a state, a cheeky, irrepressible smile still danced on his lips.

He had no regrets.

With his arms resting lazily over his knees, he hummed a forgotten tune—the kind sung before gods and Titans ever warred.

It echoed off the stone walls like a lullaby for a dying world.

Then, without sound, a presence appeared just outside his cell.

Prometheus stopped humming and looked up. His smile widened, genuinely surprised and amused.

"Well, well," he said. ’Look who the winds of Olympus dragged in. My dear brother, come to shed a tear or throw a rock?"

Epimetheus stood silently, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked stronger than Prometheus remembered—his hair pulled back, his shoulders squared with fury and sorrow.

His eyes burned not with divine wrath but with human emotion—betrayal, confusion, helplessness.

"I had to see it for myself,’ Epimetheus said through gritted teeth. "I had to see how far they would go."

Prometheus tilted his head, letting his chains clink. "Surprisingly, not too far, for now. After all, I did steal something precious."

"Why did you do it?" his brother growled. "You knew what would happen. You knew the punishment. So why!?"

"I did," Prometheus said with a soft chuckle. "And honestly, I expected the chains to be heavier."

Epimetheus glared at him. "This isn’t a joke."

"No," Prometheus admitted. "It’s not."

For a moment, the air between them thickened with silence.

"I don’t understand," Epimetheus said, his voice cracking. "You, the smartest of us, the one who planned the traps and war machines that brought Cronus’ army to their knees—you gave away Olympus’ most precious flame to a bunch of hairless apes barely able to walk upright. Why?"

Prometheus looked at him kindly, like a parent to a child still struggling to see the world beyond the horizon.

"Come on, brother." Prometheus chuckled, "I think you should already know the reason."

He doesn’t. He’s dumb and slow, that’s why he always followed Prometheus, because he’s smart and quick witted!

He can’t understand why his brother did that!

Not to mention those ungrateful bastards!

"And those damn Olympians! Have they forgotten what you did!? If you didn’t risk your life hiding the remnants of their army, would they have enough force to beat the titans!?"

"Don’t hate Olympus for this, brother," he said gently. "They only did what they believed necessary to protect their reign. What I did... was treason. I know that. I accept it."

"But why?" Epimetheus repeated, almost pleading now.

Prometheus leaned back, letting the cold stone support his weight as he finally answered. "Because they needed it. Humanity needed a spark. Not just to cook their meat or light their caves... but to believe. To hope."

Epimetheus frowned. "Hope? They’re nothing but beasts. I’ve seen them. They kill for sport, destroy what they don’t understand, fight over meaningless things. They’re worse than some of the monsters the Titans created."

Prometheus closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes. They lie, they steal, they betray. They destroy their own kind, their own homes. They burn what they can’t control and curse what they don’t understand."

He paused, then opened his eyes slowly.

"But they also dream, Epimetheus. They create songs with no audience. They paint visions of the world they wish existed. They hold each other through the dark. They fall in love. They look up at the stars and wonder what lies beyond. They risk their lives for people they’ve never met. They build, and laugh, and cry, and change."

His smile returned, soft and reverent.

"They are chaos, yes. But they are also possibility. That is the most dangerous and beautiful thing in the universe."

Epimetheus said nothing. He stared at his brother, trying to find fault in his words, some flaw in the conviction that held the Titan’s broken body upright. But there was none.

"...You love them," Epimetheus whispered, as though only just realizing it.

"I do," Prometheus said. "Not as gods love their subjects. But as a father loves a child who hasn’t yet learned how to walk straight. They stumble. They fall. But one day, they’ll rise."

The silence lingered again. Only this time, it felt different. Not cold. Not hostile.

"Will you do something for me, brother?" Prometheus asked suddenly, leaning forward.

Epimetheus met his gaze. "Anything."

"Look after them. The humans. They’ll need guidance, protection. Someone who won’t try to turn them into slaves or toys or soldiers."

Epimetheus blinked. "You want me to guide them?"

"You don’t need to guide them," Prometheus said. "Just be there. Watch. Nudge. And when the time comes, help them remember what they’re capable of."

Epimetheus hesitated... then nodded.

"I will," he said firmly. "I don’t understand it all. But I’ll do it. For you."

Prometheus closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. For the first time since he’d been imprisoned, his shoulders relaxed.

"Thank you," he whispered.

They stayed like that for a while—two brothers, separated by fate, ideology, and the bars of divine justice.

And though the storm of Olympus would soon descend upon Prometheus, and the chains would bite deeper, and the eagle would come to feast upon his liver for countless centuries...

He was at peace.

For the flame had been given.

And a spark had been born.