The trip to the beach was made shorter by the anemic city streets. Most of the folks were already retired at that time, while the remainder was likely split between temples and the undying brothels uptown. Soon it was just Ginrius, his picnic goals, and the soothing rhythm of waves. With the late Hephaestus sponsoring the nightlights, he was all set for mealtime.
Even as the roast lost its warmth, it was still a feast. The briny aroma of the sea somehow washed off the greasy stench from the meat, and whatever unfavorable else was left, he knew could be downed by a swig of water. Between all that and the lingering touch of Minea, dressed within the bandage and the herbs, the night was one of those better times he had known here and then.
He wondered about a great deal while he was at it. Living in a world where anything could kill you—from the long line of monsters to the more commonplace spawn of the divinities themselves—it's very much mandatory to keep a sharp wit about you. And though Ginrius suffered no shortage in that department, the depth of his ruminations might also count as a bane.
For instance, the vacancy of the night made way for memories of his mother, and how her passing, aggravated only by the fact that Zacleus' conception made it so, devastated his family beyond repair. The further lack of anything else also brought about notions on where he would be some years from now, and if his still vague exploits would even land him a line in the annals of his culture. The past was ripe with tales of heroes, kings, demigods, and not much else; from such context his future was all but dim.
Then of course, there was the deal with Minea, his brother, and how the powerful always won in the end. Zeus for one even nabbed his mother, a married woman, with as much effort as he probably gave when he lifted his tunic for a piss, or butterfinger a storm to an otherwise crisp summer day. Despite his efforts, if history was half as reliable, his brother was likely to prevail over him, and that outcome sucked in more ways than one.
Before he knew it his troubles had him cornered again. He felt as helpless as the sailors beyond the horizon—before the sirens that hid in the waves, baiting their lonesome urges. He'd soon realize that it's not just him—at least not entirely.
On the far edge of the beach, a weird darkness began to form. It's deeper than the natural blackness of the night, and he knew it was sentient not because of his own deductive merit, but because the way it swirled and grew in size made for some serious spoiler alert. Soon that mass had taken the form of an abnormally tall humanoid, with skin as pale (if not paler) as his own, and a misty, seemingly immaterial robe more fit for frolicking the banks of Styx. When it strode to his direction, Ginrius also noted how the man's draping hair had constellations of its own, and in the following split-second, how his eyes reflected the abyss that hung outside the lounge of stars.
Strangely enough, the man exuded more calm than caveat. He was solemnly fair, but Ginrius still ended up using his knife in vain self-defense. Gods and monsters die, sure, just not in the way of greasy kitchenware.
"May I join you, fair child?" the stranger inquired, his voice aptly cold and haunting.
Of course it was pointless to resist otherwise, so even as the chill made him sweat, Ginrius inched for that requested allowance. He lowered the knife feeling downright embarrassed for even trying.
The man more or less hovered to the invitation, and then gestured towards Ginrius' meal. A flicker of his hand cut a quarter of the beef, which he consumed in silence. "It's a bit stale," he remarked afterwards.
A few moments ago, it could have been a coin toss between whatever creature grazed into the area, but now, with all certainty, Ginrius knew he sat right next to an Olympian—one of the big three, in fact. It was Hades, god of the underworld himself.
It was like that with them. There's no confusing one for the other when they wanted to be known, likewise, indiscernible when they go incognito. These ancient celebrities were the real deal, and they had the scandals to go with the reputation.
Knowing all that, Ginrius still had the audacity to crack the first thing that popped in his head. "You were late for the feast, Lord Hades," he said with a confident and only mildly trembling voice. "Not that you were invited or anything…"
In response, Hades shot him more of his icy glare. The temperature dropped to a polar degree and the tension spiked up in unison, but before Ginrius could freeze his toes off, the god let out a hearty laughter. "True… true and fair enough, child," he said.
"Unfortunately, I did not come out of cordial invitation nor the promise of a warm meal—I came on official Olympus business," the god added, shifting back to his base demeanor.
"Olympus business?" Ginrius chose to play dumb, despite every nerve in his body telling him it had everything to do with Zacleus. It was that or a series of painstaking quests that involved monsters, which he feared in equal measure. He did the scripted nervous swallow as he anticipated the god's next words.
"Yes, I'm afraid so, child."
It didn't help at all that he was being confronted by the ruler of the underworld. Knowing that, Thanatos the executioner was probably close by, ready to swing his scythe if Hades so much as winked him to. Either way, Ginrius knew he was done for. He didn't understand why it escalated to this point, but he was done for. The powerful always won. He could hardly stand up to his halfling brother's might, let alone a god who specialized in the death industry. He felt a little honored in that sense, to have someone like Hades personally come to collect his soul.
"Do it then," Ginrius told the god, a tad too squarely for a mortal. All the trembling in his voice had gone, and though he avoided the piercing stare of a cosmic being, he gave the sea every bit of conviction he had. "Take me, but know that I refuse to admit that I am wrong. I'll walk through the gates of Tartarus believing that I have every right to fight for my beliefs."
Because of this, he missed how Hades smiled with a warmth exclusive to his wife, Persephone, and how he seemed utterly impressed of the declaration. "Very good, I would expect no less from a god of Olympus," he said. "It's good that you're ready to go as well, because the court of Zeus waits for no-one.
"What did you just say?!" Ginrius turned his head so fast, his neck could have twisted off its socket.
The spurt of impertinence finally summoned Thanatos out of the shadows—as suspected—his absolute scythe gleaming under the moonlight and Ginrius' neck. "Impudent fool!" his voice rang, slicing air and ocean both.
But the latter remained unfazed, and the god of death was soon forced to lay off by his father. "You heard right, child, as a demigod and my scion, you are to succeed the fallen godsmith, Hephaestus, in accordance to the hierarchy of ascension between the Olympian siblings, with Heracles, son of Zeus to Alcmene, ascending before my own…
"Be grateful, half-breed!" supplied Thanatos as he folded his scythe away. "It's not every day that a demigod is given godhood—even Heracles had to work all his life for a seat in Olympus!"
Most of the time, Ginrius had the proper comeback to anything thrown at him, be it from something divine or the regular bully that came with the territory. At that moment, however, between the sea, the night, and the two gods before him, silence was all he had to give.