Hades didn't get it. He didn't remember Makaria being so miserable before this. Hades fell short in a lot of ways as a parent, but he would have noticed if she was chronically depressed. The Lord of the Underworld knew all the signs. Makaria hadn't exhibited any of them. She hadn't been bursting into tears all the time. She didn't write poetry about willow trees using words like “abyss” and “gape.” She hadn't been having actual conversations with dead French painters.
This all seemed so out of left field.
So Makaria was saying that she couldn't speak to this....this...tommyrot whoever, because she was a Death Goddess? She was giving him those heart melty sad eyes that she used when she was little to make him let her play with Cerebus because she didn't want to be a child of the Underworld? She was telling him that she could never be happy because of what she was?
Makaria was a child of the Underworld because Hades was the King of the Underworld. She was a Death Goddess because she was his daughter. If she were just Persephone's she'd be the Goddess of Peach Blossoms and Dewdrops. Makaria was what she was because of him. She was saying that she was miserable because of him. She was saying she couldn't be happy, and that it was all his fault.
It broke Hades heart.
“Fine,” he said. “Do what will make you happy. I wouldn't want your unfortunate circumstances to come between you and your social life.” He sat back down. The last thing the Underworld needed was another unwilling resident, and who was Hades to stand in the way of his daughter and her only shot at happiness with her beloved acquaintance? She should marry Tommyrot and have fifteen pox ridden children. “If you don't want to be here, you should go.”
Hades felt numb. He couldn't stand to meet her eyes or even look at her. The only people he wanted to talk to were dead French painters.