Makaria had been out buying bunting. It was a little late at night to be making a trip for party supplies, but she’d seen online that there was a party warehouse (!!!) and that it was open until midnight (!!!) and Makaria hadn’t been able to resist that allure. Her party was coming up next week and it was going to be so much fun and so special, and in her mind there was bunting and balloons everywhere.
Well, there had been balloons, but then she’d read online that balloons were very bad for animals, and that if a bird ate a bit of balloon it would die. Makaria didn’t want her party to be the death of any birds. She was the goddess of gentle death, but not for birds.
But bunting seemed fine. That was just paper and string and these ones were so colourful and cheerful and they’d made Makaria smile in the shop. (She hoped that the people who owned the hotel didn’t think she felt it wasn’t good enough. It looked so very nice, but Makaria wanted it to have a little something more. Something that would make it like a party.)
On her arms she had two bags full of other assorted sundries along with the bunting. She wasn’t sure if she’d need them, but Persephone had given her a credit card to use and told her to buy whatever she wanted. Which was so nice of her mama. (Papa was also so happy recently, and she was sure it was because Persephone was still with him, even though it was summer. Back down below he was always so grim after she left, and as hard as Makaria tried she could never quite cheer him up. But now they were all together like one big family. Makaria wondered if Persephone missed her own mama, but she didn’t ask. Makaria missed Persephone when she wasn’t around.)
When another immortal got on the train across from her, Makaria tried not to stare. He didn’t look like he was in a very good state and she bit her lip, looking carefully at everyone else. No one seemed to be looking at the man wearing a half closed silk robe over his jeans. She thought there was a bit of vomit on the robe as well.
And maybe Makaria should also ignore the man, but he had that familiar aura about him: it wasn’t that she knew him, or even that he was Greek (she didn’t think he was Greek). It was that other thing that she recognised because it was connected so completely to who she was and to the men who ended up on her Isles of the Blessed. Makaria’s little island only had one type of man that stepped foot on it after death: heroes.
The man across from her (who looked so far from a hero that it was hard to imagine) gave Makaria that same feeling. And she couldn’t not come to the aid of a hero, even though this wasn’t Hades and this wasn’t her island and this wasn’t a Greek. She got up, picking up her bags, and moved to the other side of the train, sitting down close beside the man.
“Hi,” she said quietly, the gentle voice of a very gentle goddess. “You look like you need a friend?”