This wasn't fair/I'm sorry my son
The day Harry almost died had not started well.
He had burnt the bacon and left the eggs charred. He had trudged to school in the rain as his cousin drove past, his hands bandaged with a ratty cloth hiding the burn marks and blisters underneath and his cheek red, throbbing and tearstained.
He had spent the day staring into space, the numbers on his page smudged and the words jumbled. The teachers had screamed, their eyes wild and mad, posing an odd resemblance to his aunt as they raged.
"Stupid," "clueless," and "worthless," they had whispered when he left thinking they were talking softly though they knew in their hearts that they weren't.
Dudley had chased him, left his nose bleeding and his eye bruised, blamed the incident on him and left. The children had laughed when he left the classroom, their eyes following him as he walked reluctantly to his therapist's office.
His therapist had frowned, his eyes ablaze as Harry told him about another creature.
His headteacher had sighed and his teacher had laughed, the students had giggled and his aunt had cried.
This wasn't fair.
He had been dragged home by the ear, his hands trembling and tears leaking out of his eyes yet his expression fixed. He had been dragged home and threatened, thrown into his cupboard hungry and full of anger, the thoughts swirling in his head.
This wasn't fair.
His uncle had come home from work, his breath smelling of alcohol as he spoke, the scent travelling to his nose as he resisted the urge to puke. He had opened the door, the cupboard exposed to the light and the hinges creaking and protesting as they were ripped off. His fingernails dug into his arms, the blood coming so easily now.
This wasn't fair.
Punches had been delivered, heavy fists banging against his skin, digging into his stomach. The sole of his uncle's shoe smashed into his face, his nose twisting and cracking until blood streamed out, a river covering his mouth. His arms dragged him up, his head thrust backwards until the back hit the wall, flecks of red and brown and orange painted on.
This wasn't fair.
He couldn't breathe. The air in his lungs had left and the hand on his neck prevented him from gasping and reeling more air into his body.
This wasn't fair.
The world around him spun, the edges of the room fraying and giving way to black specks, the room smelling of sweat and tears and blood, the tangy metallic taste of pain filling his mouth as he coughed. This was it.
This wasn't fair.
His eyes closed slowly, the eyelids lowering until he had no willpower to keep them open and even less to live.
This wasn't fair.
Poseidon had been jolted awake by a fire burning in his chest.
His skin prickled, the dulled sensation of pain spearing through his body as he groaned. He drank water and walked, rubbed pain relievers on his skin and fell into a fitful sleep, waking the next day feeling the same. The bed became his inhabitance the entire day, his muscles groaning each time he moved and his heart aching.
He reached out to grasp the blankets next to him, his nails clutching the fabric and his face burying into his silk. The bed beneath him became damp, his tears soaking into the sheets as he shook, no thought or comforting word reaching his ears.
This was his fault. If he had gone earlier, if he had run faster, if he had stayed for longer; the ache in his body would not be persistent, the pain no longer a normal twinge that erupted and the heartache a distant memory. How could he have let this happen? How could he lay here, his face in the silk blankets, his every need tended to, the pain bearable when he knew that for his son none of this was true?
The world around him raged, the sea turbulent and roaring, waves crashing against each shore and earthquakes shaking each ground, but Poseidon did not care.
His son was gone. His son- his baby boy was hurt.
There were a million things that Poseidon would have given, a million palaces and a million trinkets he would have discarded just to see him. To ruffle his hair and hug him tight, to kiss his forehead and whisper that it would be over soon, that he would be safe. But the world did not care for his gold, it did not want his kingdom or his power.
His son was gone.
His laugh was now nothing more than a distant memory, a familiar trace that resurfaced every now and then.
This wasn't fair.
His son was hurt.
His son was never meant to know how cruel this world could be. His son who had been so innocent, so pure, his emerald eyes open wide as he took in the world after his first breath.
This world was cruel.
His son had never been destined to unravel the curtain, to peek behind the Earth's cover and taste what had been laid out behind. But he had. No matter what Poseidon had done or could do, no matter who he was or could become, he could not pull the curtains back down, he could not erase his son's memories and hide him away, he could not paint the world yellow and hope his son saw happiness coating the red hot pain.
He had failed.
I'm sorry my son.
He wished he could take him in his arms, hold him and wipe his tears, to soothe his gut-wrenching sobs and curse those who hurt him. He imagined it even now, the faces blurred and lifeless as his trident pierced their skin and the sea swallowed them whole.
Forgive me, for I have sinned and cannot repent.
This was his fault. His own doing. His own mistakes.
Forgive me, for I do not wish for you to forgive me. I am well past forgiveness and tears and salvation.
The world did not want anything. It did not take pleasure in anything but his pain and his son's agony,
Forgive me for I could not shield you and did not try.
His son was lost to the world, a world that did not care and a world that killed and maimed and hurt for the mere taste of victory on its tongue.
I'm sorry.
Zeus spent the day alone. His head bowed, locked up in his son's old bedroom, his feet only moving far enough to collapse in the centre of the room, his arms reaching out to clutch the plastic lightning bolt as if it were his lifeline. His feet lay, planted on the soft white carpet. It felt wrong. It felt wrong for him to sit here, his hands touching delicacies, his eyes taking in the room, the toys, the life his son never received.
With every step he took, his pain returned tenfold. His very skin burned, the flesh on his skin scalding hot as the golden ichor beneath it thrummed. Sharp knives prickled his skin, a ghost of a man breaking his arms, his neck, his back and his heart.
He thought of his son. The small 8-month-old boy who had just learnt to walk, his eyes furrowed in concentration and his tongue sticking out as he wobbled, one foot after the other. He did not fall but Zeus had hovered nearby nonetheless, never wanting his son to experience the pain of failing, of falling, of hurting.
He thought of his son. The 6-month-old boy could not do anything but babble and crawl and laugh but had charmed his wife. Her sharp tongue and icy demeanour had melted, the frost melting away leaving a puddle as his son stared up above, awed at the woman in front, who smiled so sweet and laughed so loud when she was with him.
He thought of his son. The one-year-old child that had gone, his eyes a distant memory and his face blurred in his memories.
This was not fair.
He thought of his son, the boy who would cry, his wails so loud and desperate at night, never calming, never stopping until Zeus would burst in at night, his lightning bolt in hand ready to smite those who dared to touch his son and see no danger and sag with relief.
Until Hera would step forward, her touch delicate as she cradled him and wiped his tears. Until Poseidon would hold him and point out the fish in his tank and watch as he closed his eyes. Until Hades would give him another plush toy and read him a story, his voice soothing and calm. Until Amphitrite would make him laugh and twirl around the room, her feet moving and him clapping his hands excitedly and babbling as they danced. Until Persephone would sing him to sleep, the smell of spring and the chirping of baby birds filling the room.
He was loved.
He was so loved.
So why?
Why did the fates not choose another? Why did the fates decide, as they brought him to life and watched him gasp, his presence gracing the world, that his boy, his sweet baby boy was the one to handle such a fate?
Pain coursed through his veins as a reminder of loss.
His son was not meant for this. His son did not deserve this.
Zeus often wondered, his mind whirring as he lay awake at night if this was his fault. If perhaps this was karma, if in his millennia of living, the mistakes he had made were too grand, too vile, too unforgivable that this was the punishment.
The very thought made him cry. To scream and rage. To curse the fates and himself over and over for leaving this boy, this helpless child, his son to reap and bathe in his blood and father's mistakes.
I'm sorry my son.
I have failed you.
Hades knew very well the meaning of loss.
He lost his childhood, his innocence fleeting the moment he awoke in his father's stomach to the eyes of his older sister and the solitude and walls of the grotesque prison he thought he would be forced to pass eternity in.
He lost his family, each member retreating silently as they left his new home forgetting who raised them, comforted them and nurtured them. He was their brother. Their family. He had spent years, decades and centuries hiding his fears and his insatiable hunger as they grew under his and Hestia's watchful gaze. He knows he knows he should not feel resentment. That this was his family and they were gods, prone to mistakes and made to hurt. This was in their nature. The betrayal, however, did not sting any less.
He lost his wife, each year for half the time she was no longer his and every year her departure was no less painful. He would often watch as she left, his heart racing and his hands shaking wondering if this was it, if this was the last time she would ever return, if this was the last time she would kiss him on the cheek and tell him she loved him, if this was the last time he would be loved. Even as she returned, it was not the same. He still saw the longing in her eyes, the way they watched the flowers in the garden bloom and die wishing she was above, in the sunlight and spring, for this was not her world and he was not her love.
He lost his demigod children. The small waif demigods would sleep and wake and spend every waking moment in his throne room where he could keep them safe, love them, and heal them until they were shipped off to camp and died. Their names still stood etched in his mind, their screams and pleas for help still ringing in his ears and haunting his nightmares.
He lost Maria. Maria, Bianca and Nico. The one family, the one home where he felt as if he belonged as if he was loved. He thinks of Nico now, the hardened boy who no longer wears his heart on his sleeve and has gone through pain beyond Hades' imagination. He only feels guilt when he thinks of Nico, knowing he had failed yet another child, only this one had been so innocent, so perfect, so lovable. His son was beyond his reach now. His hands to far away, holding on to a ledge Hades could only dream of reaching. He had never been more grateful to his family then, knowing some demigods could do what even Hades in his glory could not.
But perhaps the greatest loss to him was of his son.
He lost Hadrian.
He had lost the boy he had vowed to protect. And perhaps that was what caused him the most pain.
He had lost the boy who giggled and smiled at the skeletons, his arms reaching out to brush against the faint outline of ghosts that roamed, so expressive in his wonder.
He lost his son.
This wasn't fair.
Now as he sat on his throne, his heart twinging and his head pounding, he thought of his son afar, his eyes wide and pleading, his screams echoing through Hades' head and haunting his nightmares, his hands gripping a ledge so far, so close to giving up, so close to letting go and falling.
He thought of his son consumed by darkness, he dreamed of his son swallowed by the shadows beneath and awoke screaming in cold sweat. He did not want his son to become like him, he could not allow his son to become like him.
His son was light and everything that came after, nothing more and nothing less.
His son was not darkness. His son was not like him. His son could not be like him, he would not allow it.
His son was light.
Yet as Hades sat, the twinging growing with ferocity, he wondered if he was too late and a rush of guilt and sadness and indescribable pain hit him.
This wasn't fair.
I'm sorry my son.
The Gods did not know that afar a boy lay, his hair tussled back and matted, coated in blood.
They did not know that the boy lay with a smile on his face, his breathing stable and constant amid his confusion.
They did not know that the words echoed in his head, piercing through the fog and overtaking the pain.
They did not know that he heard.
I'm sorry.
The words echoed in his cupboard, the syllables etching themselves on the walls and hiding in the darkness.
The space spoke, its voice hollow and layered.
I'm sorry my son.