A Tale of Hope – Part 1

POV Pandora

She gazed around with wide-eyed curiosity. One moment, there was darkness. The next, she stood in a place bursting with life—towering trees, a nearby stream. Nymphs bathed in a lake nearby, beckoning her seductively, their bodies glistening in the dappled sun. But for a moment, Pandora ignored them. Instead, she walked to the riverbank and peered into the water's reflection.

Staring back was a woman with dark chestnut curls framing large, luminous eyes; full lips parted in wonder; skin the rich hue of newly forged bronze. Her light silk tunic clung to her curves like morning mist. In her hands, she cradled a small box, a bronze chain securing it to her wrist—an object she instinctively knew she must never open.

Deep within, she felt the warmth of Prometheus's flame, and even a whispered message:

Forgive me…

Was this apology for her creation? Or for burdens yet unknown? Regardless, she was alive. Alive, and surrounded by so many wonders to learn from, to experience. She felt nothing but joy. The world was beautiful—untainted by negativity, a true paradise.

Her only purpose was to protect the box. She smiled, slipped out of her tunic, and dove into the lake. As long as the box was safe, she could live freely.

For hours, she reveled with the nymphs—swimming through cool waters, tasting sun-warmed berries, surrendering to caresses that made her feel profoundly real. Later, as they lounged on mossy banks, they spoke for hours, sharing stories until a new topic caught her ear.

"Lord Zeus is furious with Hades," one nymph murmured, braiding Pandora's damp hair. "While Zeus was distracted, he kidnapped Lady Metis and Aphrodite! They say he forced the Goddess of Love to officiate his Wedding to Metis."

"Hades is the worst," another nymph sniffed. "I heard from our sisters by the rivers that he's sent a strange stone creature to fetch a nymph. I wonder what he wants with us. We should stay far away."

"I heard that Lord Oceanus plans to wage war—demanding his daughter's return. But Lord Poseidon convinced him to hear Hades's side. I wonder what defense Hades will present." The first nymph said, as grapes sprouted from her hair and offered themselves to Pandora.

"And to think the Underworld is ruled by someone like that… Luckily, we don't have to worry about visiting him."

Pandora remained silent, absorbing each tale. Occasionally she spoke, but mostly she observed, marveling at this new world. She glanced at the box: dark steel, etched with symbols of nature—trees, winds, lakes. What secrets lay inside? she wondered.

Her fascination with the reflection was so strong that she nearly reached to touch it—then the nymph's voice cut through her reverie.

"Lord Zeus split Cronos's humans in two just now! I've heard them weeping for their missing halves. Even reunited, they're... hollow now."

"It seems Lord Zeus and Prometheus intend to fix this—to create a new type of human." The nymph lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Apparently this new kind will be a woman—the first of her kind. Curious, don't you think, Pandora?"

"Yes, I think—" Pandora began, but another nymph interrupted.

"I discovered that the humans—and this new human—will now be mortal, no longer immortal like us. Lord Zeus wasn't pleased with humanity's evolution and chose to punish them." She spoke in hushed tones, eyes rising to the sky in fear of thunder.

Pandora fell silent, listening as they debated Zeus's ever more elaborate plans for punishment.

After some time, her curiosity reawakened. Immortality or not, beauty abounded here—and she wanted to explore it all. Birds often flew past; deer wandered in to drink. Then, she heard hurried footsteps approaching through the forest. She looked toward the sound but saw nothing. However, from another direction, she felt a presence—someone watching her. Behind a curtain of ferns, a pair of wild, intelligent eyes locked onto hers.

Turning, she prepared to leave the water and investigate, but before she could, the nymphs all went quiet, their attention fixed on that same approaching sound. A figure burst from the trees.

A man—wild-eyed, disheveled, naked, covered in cuts and grime—charged toward them, clutching a jagged rock. Blood, fear, desperation: these emotions radiated from him.

"GIVE HIM BAAAAACK!" he screamed in a raw, hoarse voice.

Pandora felt a tremor in her chest—a responsive quiver in Prometheus's flame within her feeling the man pain. The man lunged violently at her and the nymphs—

—but before he could reach them, another figure crashed through the foliage.

A Titan, tall and fierce, with long black hair and a narrow beard shot through with gray. He wore the physique of a warrior and a heavy cloak. He moved like lightning, tackling the human before he took three steps.

Thud.

Blood bloomed on the earth. Pandora's hands flew to her mouth. Why had she come here? What was she meant to witness?

POV Hades

I watched the human collapse to the ground—nameless, like all his kind since Zeus tore them apart. Before the division, names were unnecessary; survival required no words. And yet, as I looked upon his broken form, I felt my heart ache.

He was the first of many victims of divine arrogance.

When I looked into his soul, I saw the echoes of his final moments—fragments of memory still clinging to him. I witnessed what he saw: nymphs laughing beside the water, the scent of Zeus Divinity. He hadn't charged for vengeance, nor out of madness—but out of longing. A desperate desire to be whole again.

And then... the strike. The Titan Epimetheus, hidden among the trees, watching the scene unfold with careless curiosity. Shame lingered on his face as he stood nearby now, as if he knew what he had done. Perhaps he hadn't meant to kill—but he had, all the same.

"Sisters," I called to Demeter and Hestia, "please proceed to the palace. I will escort this one." They exchanged glances, about to protest, but I raised my hand and conjured a small boat across the Acheron so they needn't summon Charon.

They obeyed—casting me a puzzled glance. I always made them a priority; asking them to go on ahead felt… different. Necessary, but different.

This was the first mortal to die. It marked the true beginning of my reign as Lord of the Dead.

I forced a thin smile as I approached the fallen soul. "Rise. You stand before the Sovereign of the Underworld." His legs shook, but he obeyed. "Your name shall be Cain—the first mortal to walk this realm. Let that name carve itself into your soul, in this life and all lives to come."

My authority settled over him like a mantle. I felt his soul respond to it, growing more stable, more defined. Paradoxically, that very solidity made it freer, less prone to fragmentation.

"Lord Hades…" he spoke softly, his voice carrying the weight of sorrow rather than gratitude. "Thank you for your blessing. I… I had no name, not truly. Part of me was torn away—ripped from within—by Lord Zeus. Can you help me? I just want to be whole again."

I studied his face, worn and hollow, shaped by loss. There was no anger there. Only longing.

"Come," I said, stepping closer, my tone gentler. "Allow me to see your soul in its entirety."

I could have forced the revelation—dragged his truth out like a confessor—but that would've bruised what remained of his dignity. With his permission, however, the soul would open itself more willingly. It was better this way—for both of us.

He nodded. I studied him closely: his soul clung to the shell of his body like torn fabric barely stitched together. Two halves, violently severed, then sealed not with care, but with the equivalent of divine flame—hastily cauterized, not healed. There was no real mending, only a cruel attempt to keep him standing. A soul treated this way will never know peace. It will wander, forever hungry for something just out of reach—something it cannot name, yet aches to reclaim.

It was the work of someone with only the faintest understanding of how souls function. A botched surgery performed by a god who understood the soul as a child understands stars—distant, beautiful, and untouchable. If all humans were made this way, then none would ever be truly whole. They would be condemned to seek endlessly, mistaking that longing for destiny, love, ambition, or rage.

And worst of all, it was impossible for me to undo. The Underworld could ease the wound during the soul's purification, lessen its sting... but never remove it. Should the soul grasp again for what it lost in its next life, the scar would reopen. Again and again. Generation after generation. A curse masquerading as design.

For the span of a heartbeat, I considered it—marching to Olympus, tearing through the marble halls, dragging Zeus from his throne.

Not out of ambition.

Out of justice.

But I sighed, letting the thought fade like smoke in the dark.

Not because I feared him. No, the King of Olympus holds no terror for me. But the realm above still lacks worthy rulers. Even if I took his place, what then? Would I rule alone? Impose order through raw will?

No. The time isn't right. We must wait. Let more gods rise. Let wiser heads emerge.

Perhaps when Athena is born from Metis, she will be the one. Zeus underestimates our sisters far too often. It would be fitting—deliciously ironic—for him to be dethroned by his very daughter while he fear a son.

But as I turned my focus back to Cain, I saw two paths before me. I could let things unfold naturally—allow his soul to reincarnate, life after life, endlessly searching for the missing piece of himself, chasing a phantom of wholeness he could never truly grasp.

Or... I could play the mad scientist. I could interfere. Experiment.

Perhaps that is the path to healing humanity—not through divine decrees or punishment, but through careful, deliberate understanding. Through compassion stitched into design.

"Cain," I said softly, "I cannot allow you to return to the world of the living."

His gaze dropped to the floor.

"Nor can I bring the missing piece of your soul here, to live out eternity beside you. That's not how the cycle works."

"What I can offer," I continued, "is a role in service to the Underworld. You may serve as a guardian, assist Charon with the ferry, or take on other duties. And if your other half arrives while you remain here, you will be allowed to see him—spend a year together before returning to your duties. Your service will last twelve years. After that, you will be reborn."

I paused, then added, "However, if either you or your soul's other half is condemned to Tartarus, or granted paradise in the Elysian Fields, the agreement will dissolve. The blessed do not reincarnate... and the damned do not return."

Then, more softly, I finished: "If you and your soulmate find each other in the Elysian Fields, you will remain together for all eternity. No more searching. No more sorrow. Only peace."

He trembled as the weight of the terms settled over him. For a few moments, he teetered between longing and resignation—until, finally:

"I accept, Lord Hades," he said. "Command me as one of your shadows. I shall serve the Underworld as Cain."

There was fire in his eyes now—conviction burning through sorrow. I allowed a faint smile to touch my lips.

My hope was that time in the Underworld would nurture his soul, softening the damage wrought by separation. And when—if—he reunited with the missing half of himself, that single year together might be enough to start closing the wound for good.

"Rise, Cain," I declared, my voice echoing with power. "First of the Underworld's Shadows. You shall serve in this life and in others as my messenger—carrying word to my oracles and clerics in the realm of the living."

His eyes widened. Even in this early age, before mortal civilization had matured, the title of divine messenger carried weight—gravitas.

"As for your first mission," I continued, "you will pass through the lakes of the Underworld, then visit a mortal of your choosing. He will be my first oracle. You are to reveal to him the rites of death—how the living must honor the dead."

"This mortal," I added, "will be given the name Dante. His task will be to carry my teachings to the world of men."

It was the perfect ruse. This way, Cain would have a chance to say goodbye to the other half of his soul—under the guise of divine duty. But in truth, I had another motive as well: the sooner the dead were honored properly, the less risk there would be of diseases born from corrupted corpses. A necessary safeguard.

"My lord, your servant hears and obeys," Cain said.

Tears streamed down his face. Then, turning from me, a pair of dark, demonic wings erupted from his back. He launched into the air, vanishing in a storm of violet flames and drifting ash.