The Queen's Irony

27

He sat alone, smoking a cigar, a glass of brandy on the rocks in his hand. The room was in a dull light. The only source of light coming from the little green lamp on his desk and his own divine aura. His eyes scanned the words on the paper in front of him: once, twice, three times. Each time, understanding the contents being explained less and less. He had been going through letters and paperwork from gods and mortals alike for hours now, and with each passing moment, his anxiety on Her condition invaded his thoughts evermore.

He took a swig of his drink and skimmed through the document one more time. A proposition from Jehovah (something about the unification of pantheons and how it'd work).

He scratched the top of his head and set down the paper, deciding to move to a different document. One She had already worked on and had been in the process of answering. He skimmed through this one as well. An anonymous and strange request to segregate minor and major gods on Mount Olympus.

He shook his head, confused and incredulous while he moved this one aside, too. He picked up a third and skimmed through. This one was the proposal of another major flood to flow unto the world, along with a long list of pros and cons attached. Great, there was even a petition. What's more? He recognized a few signatures from the council.

He gave a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair, watching the work before him.

He knew she always did the heavy lifting, but he never realized exactly how much it really was. Sitting here, alone, with only the hope that she'd be okay, the self-righteous anger of what had been going on behind his back, and the horrible sinking feeling that immortality could no longer be called such, he often found he was drinking himself numb. He'd take out whatever frustration would arise, anger or lust, on Her. And then march himself back to his own office, determined to figure out the jargon that Hera would so easily read and understand.

He only lasted an hour each time as either the buzz of that hour's chosen liquor lulled him to sleep, the want for a different buzz led him to Adiya, or the need to feel like an actual thoughtful being led him to Hera's bedside.

He hated being helpless. He hated being useless. He hated being told to "stand-by." He hated the idea that all of this was his fault. All of this was due to pride and ego. He hadn't felt so in the wrong since the birth of Ares and Eris. He hated the all too familiar feeling of worthlessness, stinging nausea and empty pain that engulfed his body. He hated the routine he created for himself of his futile attempt after futile attempt just to even try and simulate relief. The only thing that ever seemed to do the trick for some odd and possibly vain reason was visiting Hera and holding her hand while he stayed by her bedside.

He leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table. He hid his face in his large, cold hands and closed his eyes. The electricity that ran through his veins escaped his fingertips and entered through his temple. The sensation gave him an added buzz to his already tipsy brain. Eventually, he heard the taunting buzz of the electrical lighting from her room along with the added infernal beeping that would ring through and out into the hall. The coldness of the air surrounding him enveloped his body. His tongue pressing against the back of his own teeth in tense anger and sadness. The antiseptic of the room, mixed with soap and sickengly sweet air freshener, invaded his nostrils. These were all overlooked by the sight of her chest, rising and falling peacefully and without struggle.

He wished to know what she dreamt of that made her sleep so easily while he spent several nights in bed breathing in her scent. A scent that slowly faded with each rise of the sun. The scent that she still carried within the hospital and which overpowered the cleaning agents that surrounded him. How he missed her. He missed her voice, the power it carried and held.