Son Of Hades

Chapter One: A Life Lived Through Books

Hi, my name is Clio Miller. Before I begin my story of fantasy, romance, and heartbreak let me fill you in on how I ended up here. When I was fourteen and in gym class, I went from energetic to dizzy in a game of basketball. It was not a game I enjoy entirely however, the mere feeling of adrenaline pumping through my body and excitement over a *swish* was exhilarating. It was a warm day outside, absolutely beautiful and thought the dizziness was probably lack of water mixed with heat. I stepped to the side to tell my teacher how I was feeling but then I felt it. The sudden weakness shocked me; it felt like someone had siphoned all my energy. My breath hitched, a desperate gasp of air that wouldn't come.

Terror gripped me as the world swam, blurring before my eyes. I stumbled, desperately trying to stay upright, but the ground rushed up to meet me. The last thing I remember was the jarring impact, the cause of this strange episode was a terrifying mystery, then darkness.

I had such a wonderful dream of meadows and valleys, the feeling of a comforting yet protective hidden spirit watching me. It was a quick glimpse before waking up to my family by my side with dried tear streaks on their cheeks, some droplets behind. That was when my world crashed down and my dreams became part of my ongoing survival to keep me sane and hopeful.

****

The beeping of the dialysis machine was a steady, rhythmic pulse in the otherwise sterile room. Honestly, it's become my new metronome – a soundtrack to my life. Ten years. Ten years since that awful day in gym class, collapsing like a dropped marionette. Ten years since the doctor uttered those terrifying words: "Stage three kidney disease." But you know what? Ten years later, I'm still here, breathing, dreaming, and even – dare I say it – thriving.

“Clio, honey, you alright?” My mom’s voice, soft and laced with concern, cuts through my thoughts.

I smile, a genuine smile that reaches my eyes. “Perfect, Mom! Just lost in a book, as usual.” I hold up the worn copy of *The Odyssey*, its pages dog-eared and underlined. This book, along with countless others, has been my steadfast companion. History, especially ancient civilizations, is my refuge, a world away from the harsh reality of the years of off and on dialysis.

“That’s my girl,” she says, her hand resting lightly on mine. “Doctor Haidess will be in soon to check your vitals.”

Dr. Haidess, a kind woman with a perpetually amused twinkle in her eye, arrives shortly. After a quick checkup, she beams. “Your levels are looking good, Clio. Keep up the fantastic work!”

"I will," I reply, already picturing my next escape – the dream valley. It’s become my personal Shangri-La, a vivid, recurring dream that’s as real to me as the sterile white walls of this dialysis room.

"Speaking of fantastic," I continue, turning to my mom, "My dream last night was amazing! I was in this breathtaking valley, bathed in sunshine, surrounded by blooming flowers and fruit trees. And get this – a talking book appeared! It was narrating Greek mythology, complete with moving pictures!"

Mom laughs, a warm, comforting sound. “Sounds like quite the adventure, sweetie. Maybe it’s your body’s way of telling you to take a vacation after this treatment is done. I think it’s time to start thinking about that trip to Greece we’ve been talking about!”

"Oh Mom! Greece! Imagine actually seeing those places from my dream! It would be incredible!" The dialysis continues, it hums a lullaby to my thoughts. I close my eyes, and the valley returns. The sun warms my skin; the grass is soft under my bare feet.

The voice from the book, deep and resonant, fills the air. "The tales of the gods and heroes are merely reflections of the human spirit, Clio, their struggles, triumphs, and eternal journey. Death is not an end, but a transition." I exhale with joy. The words echo what's been lurking in my heart; a hidden hope that perhaps, even with my illness, there's more to life than just surviving. It's more about living fully, embracing the beauty and wonder that surrounds me, even in the face of adversity. The image of the dream valley shifts slightly. I see a small cottage nestled amidst the trees, smoke curling from its chimney. A warm glow emanates from within, promising comfort and belonging. The machine beeps again, pulling me back to reality. I open my eyes, a newfound strength coursing through me. The dream, the book, Dr. Miller's words, my mom's support – they’re all pieces of a puzzle, a puzzle whose solution isn't a cure, but something even more profound: the understanding that my life is a precious journey, and no matter what challenges I face, there’s always beauty to be found, even in the most unexpected places. And Greece? Oh, Greece is definitely happening.

***

On the way home, I was reading up on the ancient history and culture of Greece, my soon to be vacation. I've always considered myself an optimist, even in the face of my illness. It's like that old saying, "The brighter the light, the darker the shadow." Well, I choose to stand in the light, and that's made all the difference. That optimism has been my beacon, guiding me through the darkest of times. Like a ray of sunshine breaking through storm clouds, it's illuminated my path, showing me the beauty and wonder that exists even in the most unexpected places. My love for history, especially ancient civilizations, has been my sanctuary. Books have transported me to far-off lands and times, offering an escape from all of this chaos. The Odyssey, with its tales of adventure and endurance, has been a particular favorite, a reminder that the human spirit is resilient and that our journeys are filled with trials and triumphs. And now, Greece beckons. The thought of walking among the ancient ruins, of breathing the same air as the heroes and gods of my dreams, fills me with an indescribable joy. It's as if my illness has gifted me with a heightened sense of appreciation for life's wonders, and I plan to embrace every moment of this adventure with open arms.

As we drive home, the warm sun and gentle hum of the car lull me into a light slumber. I find myself back in my dream valley, but this time, it's different. I'm standing in a lush meadow, a gentle breeze playing with my hair. There's a creek flowing nearby, its clear waters rippling gently over smooth stones. The sound of it is soothing, like a soft melody accompanying the whispers of the wind. I walk towards the creek, feeling the soft grass tickle my feet, and as I draw closer, I see something extraordinary. Reflected in the water is a young woman, her face strong and determined, yet softened by a gentle smile. Her eyes, a mirror of my own, hold an unwavering spark of hope. I realize, with a start, that this is me — a healthier, stronger version of myself. She raises a hand in greeting, and I do the same, marveling at how our reflections connect.

"You are brave, Clio Miller," she says, her voice carrying the wisdom of the ages. "You've endured, and your journey, though challenging, is far from over. Embrace the adventures to come, for they will shape you and bring you joy." I wake with a start as the car pulls into our driveway. The dream stays with me, the image of the creek and my reflection imprinted on my mind.

What a wonderful dream, my escape. The familiar scent of home did little to ease the lingering unease from the dream. My body ached, the vibrant escape now a distant memory. The wheelchair felt confining, a stark contrast to the creek's free-flowing water. Home seemed small and suffocating after the boundless dream world. A wave of dizziness threatened, and I wondered if the day would bring more adventures, or simply more discomfort. We live in a moderately small home. All one story thank goodness, I would not know what to do if my room was upstairs. My dad isn't home yet, he works a lot, and I don't see him much, but his job pays for my treatment and for that we are all grateful. When I do see my dad, he hides his exhaustion and will always come to me, awake or asleep and will hold on to me for a few minutes, whether it’s a hug, a handhold, or stroking my hair and giving me a kiss on the forehead. His touch, though brief, is a lifeline, a tangible connection amidst his long absences. It's a silent promise whispered in the shared moments. These stolen minutes are precious, a small comfort against the overwhelming reality of his demanding work and my ongoing treatment. He cherishes them as much as I do. The quiet strength in his embrace hints at the sacrifices he makes, fueling hope for brighter days ahead. His love, a strong vibrant light in our small home. It does not go unnoticed. Maybe this is where I get my vibrant optimism and sheer will to thrive.

***

I open of my romance books about a handsome man who is a handyman, he falls in love with a woman who doesn't have a future with him because of her career but the enjoy one another's company and spend endless nights with one another to escape from their reality. Sounds like a book I could get lost in forever. The way it talks of the main guy character's calloused hands, evidence of his hard work, gently hold the main character woman close, a comforting contrast to her anxieties about her demanding career. Their shared nights offer solace. Stolen moments become precious memories, building a quiet defiance against the odds stacked against their unconventional love. The romance blossoms despite the challenges. A future uncertain yet filled with the promise of stolen moments and a love that shines brighter than any obstacle. Will their love prevail?

This saccharine romance, a nauseating display of effortless connection, clawed at the hollow ache in my chest. I wanted that – the weight of another's body pressed against mine, the rough-spun comfort of a hand cradling my face, the searing brand of a gaze that saw *me*. Not just the surface, the carefully constructed façade I presented to the world, but the raw, bleeding heart beneath. To be desired, yes, but not politely, not with a gentle hand. I craved a possession that left me breathless, a love that scorched and consumed. The quiet desperation of it all, the blatant conflict between their oblivious bliss and my own simmering torment, tasted like a dry bitterness in my mouth.

I have never been touched by a man, not even a kiss in any romantic way. One day I will find someone, one day I will have my first kiss, first love... This yearning, this desperate hope, felt like a physical ache, a reminder of my isolation. It felt unbearable at times. The unfulfilled desire, a burning ember within, fueled my obsession. I craved for a connection, a touch that transcended mere physical matter. This dream of a first touch, a first kiss, burned brighter with each passing day, a promise whispered in the shadows of my longing. I know this is all just innocent hope, a fragile seed of expectation.

Soon after I finished reading my romance, a fresh wave of pain pulsed through me, a familiar ache settling deep in my bones. My vision blurred slightly at the edges, the vibrant mix of colors of tapestry on my wall softening, fading. I shifted carefully, wincing, a low groan escaping my lips. The book slipped from my numb fingers, landing softly on the duvet.

My dad, Robert Miller, entered the room. He moved with his usual quiet efficiency, a contrast to the chaotic storm raging inside me. He carried a small glass of cherry-flavored liquid and a reassuring smile. His smile never faltered, even when things were most dire. It was a practiced thing; a comfort he offered without fail.

"How's my history buff?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm, the same tone he always used with me.

"Herodotus was…exhausting," I managed, my voice raspy. The words felt heavy, weighed down by the pain. I hid my romance book behind another books cover. I know there should not have been anything for me to feel ashamed about but I don’t really get much privacy and to well… my dad just walked in.

"Exhausting but rewarding, I bet," he chuckled softly. He leaned down, kissing my forehead briefly. The contact was soft and unsurprisingly soothing. "Here's your medicine, sweetie. Try to get some rest."

I took the glass from him, the cool liquid a welcome to the burning sensation spreading through my limbs. The cherry scent was sharp, almost medicinal, yet oddly comforting. It was a scent irretrievably linked with the unwelcome ritual of taking my medication.

“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered, sipping the medicine slowly. Each swallow was a tiny victory in the ongoing battle against the relentless tide of pain.

"You know," he said, sitting on the edge of my bed, his gaze settling on the book lying abandoned beside me. "I sometimes wonder what you'd be like if you weren't…dealing with all this."

I shrugged, unable to muster the energy for a proper response. A bittersweet smile touched my lips. What if? The question was a phantom limb, a constant ache in the landscape of my imagination. A life without pain, a life where history was not merely an escape but a full-time pursuit, remained tantalizingly out of reach.

He continued, "You'd probably be off excavating some ancient tomb in Egypt, wouldn't you? Finding lost cities."

“Maybe,” I said, a soft laugh escaping me. The thought, for all its wistful impossibility, brought a genuine smile to my face. The thought of escaping, even just in my dreams, was potent medicine in itself.

"Sleep well, Clio," he said, his voice softer now. He ruffled my hair gently before leaving the room, the click of the door a quiet punctuation mark to our conversation. I took another sip of the medicine, its slightly bitter taste reminding me of the reality I couldn't escape. But even as the darkness threatened to engulf me once more, the image of myself, a fearless explorer amongst the sands of time, flickered brightly in the corner of my mind.