She had seethed on the first day. Silent, but furious. He could sense it from her as one sensed heat from flame. The closer to her he strayed the stronger the warmth. Until, with hand on her shoulder, he felt he should burst into flames. Styx had taken to wailing - terrible things, from the reaches of the soul that rarely were exposed - and slamming small fists into his chest. She'd demanded to know why he wasn't angry. She'd demanded to know how he could avoid the hate she felt in every fiber of her being.
"What of me do you carry? Anything?"
Her hip filled one hand. A fistful of her hair filled the other. Nails, dragging down his chest, deep into his flesh. The sounds that escaped her were short, furious things. Everything in her then was violence. He had never known how to speak his heart. To give it a voice was first to determine its truest contents. He could not speak what he did not fully understand. Instead he showed her, and she him. Deep in her throat, the sounds became more angry, and she more insistent. Blood dripped from his chest to hers, but Akheron did not stop. He was not sure he could have.
"What of me do you carry? Anything?"
She wept. That was when he felt the first stir of it. The hate that was hers. She had wept for their son, and for his future denied. She had wept for her own pain; her own sense of betrayal. She had gone to the mountain and pleaded with the king who owed her everything. Zeus had been unmoved. She was alone, save for him, and she needed to know what he felt. But hate was not the whole of it, or even the main thrust of it. It was here. She was in his arms. This was what he felt. More, and less, than words could ever say. The hate was but a bloom, and gone.
"What of you do I carry?" he asked in a rasp.
The rage, the terrible rage. Demeter had fled. Akheron flung another flaming lantern into the center of the temple. She had known he was coming, and had known the pure hatred that fueled him. Had known better than any what would become of her should she fall into the hands of the pain that pursued her. She knew nothing of pain. Another column shook beneath the heavy weight of his fist. The temple shifted in its foundation. Thanatos was there, pulling at his arm, but Akheron could see only red. She had stepped in front of his second swing. Full mouth, and amber hair, and pale skin. Just that. She said nothing, but he could see it in her eyes.
She understood everything, in that moment.
"All of you. Every bit."
His face had become twisted. One side of his mouth curled up. Not a smile. His eyes were pinched, at the corners, and alight with something different. Something long buried. Just as quickly as it was clear, it was gone, and his face was stone.