Chapter Text
The decision had been made. For months, the memory of Nico’s sleepy, whispered plea—“Can we have a family dinner... please?”—had echoed through the cold corridors of Hades’ mind like a recurring debt he couldn't settle.
He had spent weeks pacing the gardens, staring at the empty chairs on the terrace, and debating the wisdom of it. To invite them was to be vulnerable; to be vulnerable was to risk the very foundation of his control. But the Lord of the Dead was nothing if not patient. He waited until the seasons shifted, until the first frost touched the upper world and the scent of woodsmoke signaled it was time.
He waited until the gates of the Underworld groaned open and the air grew sweeter, signaled by the arrival of the one person who could make the Palace of Justice feel like something other than a tomb. He waited until Persephone was home. Only once her vibrant presence had settled into the obsidian halls did he feel the courage—or perhaps the desperation—to put pen to paper.
But even with her in the next room, the execution was grueling.
In the Palace of Justice, the air was heavy and silent, save for the aggressive, rhythmic scratch-scratch-scratch of a quill against high-grade charcoal parchment. Hades sat hunched over his desk, his shoulders so tense they looked like they had been carved from the very obsidian of the walls. He had already crumpled four drafts into the wastebasket; apparently, finding the right balance between "affectionate father" and "inescapable lord of the abyss" was a linguistic nightmare.
He stared at the fifth attempt. He wanted to say 'I missed you,' but his hand wouldn't move that way. He wanted to say 'I'm sorry,' but the ink seemed to dry up at the mere thought.
"Too formal," he muttered, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in his chest. "Too threatening. Too... fatherly?" He winced at the word, feeling a bead of sweat at his temple. He was a god who had commanded legions of the dead without blinking, yet a three-paragraph invitation was currently defeating him.
He dipped the quill again, the ink blacker than his own shadows. He had to get this right. He wouldn't let Nico think it was a dream, and he wouldn't let Hazel think it was a trick. He just needed to find a way to tell them to come home without sounding like he was ordering them to a sentencing.
"You’re brooding again," a bright, airy voice drifted from the balcony.
Persephone stepped into the room, her presence like a burst of spring air in a tomb. She was draped in a gown of shifting floral silk, and as she walked, small, pale violets bloomed in the cracks of the floor tiles, only to wither and vanish a second later.
Hades didn't look up. "I am drafting a formal summons."
"A summons?" Persephone leaned over his shoulder, her floral scent clashing with the smell of heavy ink and old dust. She plucked one of the discarded drafts from the bin and smoothed it out. "'Failure to attend shall be viewed as an act of insurrection against the Crown'? Hades, darling, it’s just dinner. It's not a declaration of war."
"It is a logistical undertaking of the highest order," Hades grumbled, his quill snapping under the pressure of his grip. He cursed under his breath and reached for a fresh one. "The boy is flighty. The girl is busy with her Roman politics. If I do not emphasize the gravity of the occasion, they will arrive late, or worse—bring that satyr child who eats the silverware."
Persephone let out a bell-like laugh, a sound that usually made Hades’ heart soften, but today it only made his jaw tighten. "Grover hasn't been to the palace in years. And Nico's boyfriend is a delight! He brings me those little packets of seeds from the surface. The 'Sun-In-A-Jar' ones."
"He is a child of Apollo," Hades muttered, dipping his quill with enough force to splash ink onto his sleeve. "He glows. It’s distracting. It makes the shadows twitch."
Persephone reached out, her cool fingers resting on his tensed neck. She began to massage the knot in his muscles, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You’re nervous. The King of the Dead is shaking in his silk robes because he has to cook for his children."
"I am not nervous. I am... meticulous," he corrected, though his ears turned a faint shade of red. "And I am not 'cooking.' I am preparing a traditional meal to ensure the lineage understands its heritage."
"Right. Which involves you wearing that apron I bought you. The one that says 'Kiss the Cook or Face the Furies'?"
Hades finally looked up, his dark eyes flashing with a mix of indignation and genuine irritation. "I burned that. In the Phlegethon. Personally."
"I bought three more," she winked, plucking the final version of the letter from under his hand before he could add a postscript about the punishment for improper table manners. She scanned the lines about his 'wrath' and 'displeasure.'
"Hades, honestly," she giggled, shaking her head. "You sound like you're inviting them to their own execution. 'Face my wrath'? Can't you just say 'I’d love to see you'?"
"No," Hades snapped, snatching the letter back and slamming his signet ring into the black wax. "The wrath is implied by the lineage. It provides structure. It provides... expectations."
"It provides them with a reason to call their therapists," Persephone countered, still grinning. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, the smell of rain and honeysuckle briefly overwhelming the gloom. "Go hide your letters in the shadows, my gloomy King. I’ll go make sure the skeletons haven't used the good tablecloths to make bandages again."
As she swished out of the room, still humming a light tune, Hades sat back in his throne-like chair. He looked at the ink-stained letter in his hand. He felt ridiculous. He felt exhausted. But mostly, he felt a strange, terrifying flutter in his chest at the thought of the table being full.
"It's not just dinner," he whispered to the empty room, his voice sounding far less like a king and more like a man who just wanted his kids to like his pasta. "It’s... a family dinner."
He stood up, adjusted his robes with a sharp tug, and vanished into the shadows to deliver the mail. He had exactly twenty-four hours to remember where he’d hidden the garlic.