The Return of the Hades

Divorce

1

In the big city of Usati, important government and military people gathered in a sad and serious way. They wore all-black clothes and stood quietly, showing respect with their heads bowed down. At the center of their assembly, an imposing coffin lay draped in the country's flag, a poignant symbol of the profound loss that had befallen the nation.

Amidst the hushed whispers and the heavy air of mourning, President Alexander Volkov, resplendent in his own all-black suit, stepped forward to address the gathered crowd. 

"Our prophet," President Volkov began, his words measured and imbued with deep reverence, "is the very eyes and brain of Usati. Today, as we pay our final respects, we must remember the selfless sacrifice he made for our beloved country." Even though he sounded very sad, his determination came through and affected everyone who listened.

As the president's speech reached its crescendo, the assembled officers, both civilian and military, offered their solemn affirmation. "Usati cannot live without prophets," they intoned in unison, their voices a solemn chorus. "Usati cannot live without prophets."

President Volkov's gaze swept across the somber gathering, his eyes reflecting the weight of the nation's collective sorrow. "As long as Usati does not have a prophet," he declared, his voice firm and unwavering, "it will not join any war." His words hung in the air, a testament to the unyielding commitment to peace that defined their nation.

With a final, poignant nod, the president concluded his speech, his words lingering in the air like a solemn vow. "Let us wait for the prophet to return," he said, his voice carrying the weight of both hope and conviction.

As the president's speech came to an end, a throng of curious reporters surged forward, their voices eager to unravel the mysteries that shrouded the prophet's passing. "Mr. President, didn’t the prophet confirm his death?" they inquired, their eyes alight with curiosity and urgency.

For a fleeting moment, President Volkov hesitated, his gaze shifting to meet the unyielding gaze of the camera. Then, with a solemn determination, he raised his head and met the probing eyes of the assembled press.

"Because prophets," he intoned, his voice carrying a note of profound certainty, "predicted his return."

****

In a cozy cafe in Tremont City, Darien sat across from his wife, Cersei Smith, feeling the weight of her words as she pushed set of divorce papers toward him. His hand, reaching out to accept them, knocked his coffee cup over, the liquid cascading onto the table.

"This is divorce agreement, sign it, it will be good for us all," Cersei urged, her tone firm as she motioned for the waiter to clear the table and for her secretary to bring out another copy of the divorce agreement.

"Why?" Darien asked, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and hurt.

Cersei regarded him coolly, her gaze steady. "Darien, you've been a good husband in many ways. You've taken care of my family, and you've been faithful. But we're no longer of the same class. You only tend to household chores and cooking, while I've become the president of the company. On top of that, you're blind, and I simply don't have the time to take care of you."

As she spoke, Darien struggled to maintain his composure, his mind reeling with a mix of emotions. "Is this how you measure our relationship, Cersei? With money?" he asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Cersei's eyes flashed with anger at his words. "How dare you imply that I measure our relationship with money," she shot back, her tone sharp. "This is about practicality and our differing paths in life. I'm offering you a generous compensation of 5 million dollars, Darien. You can use it to find someone who will take care of you."

Darien felt a surge of pain at her words, but he refused to let it show. He continued to ask questions, his voice calm but tinged with a hint of sadness. 

"Why Cersei?" Darien's voice was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling cafe around them. "Why is it that the money I gave you to start your empire suddenly means nothing?"

Cersei leaned back, her expression cold and indifferent. "Darien, that was an investment in a dream. And yes, the $2 million was yours, which I turned into a thriving business. The $5 million I'm offering is more than just a return; it’s a gesture of goodwill."

Darien shook his head, the disbelief evident in his tone. "Goodwill? After everything, you think money can erase the past? You begged me to marry you, Cersei. Does that mean nothing now?"

"I was young and naive," Cersei replied sharply, her eyes narrowing. "I thought love was all we needed. But life is more than just sentiment. It's about moving forward, not being held back by... by a blind man who can only tend to a tree!"

Cersei's secretary, Lillian Rose, approached the table with a fresh set of papers in her hands, witnessing the exchange, she interjected coldly, "Mr. French, Ms. Smith did care for you after the accident, for three full years. But she's a CEO now, and you... you’re like a farmer, caring only for that bodhi tree in your yard. You’ve become a weight around her neck."

Darien's heart ached at the words, but his resolve hardened. "I see," he said quietly. "So my worth is measured by what I can no longer do. I don't want your money, Cersei. I just want my parents' house back. It's more than an inheritance; it’s where my soul finds peace." There were also things like herbs in the yard of the house that he must not lose.

Lillian scoffed, "That old house? It’s worth over $10 million now. You have a knack for value, Darien. Perhaps better than you ever realized." 

Cersei was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. The house is yours."

Darien reached out, his fingers brushing the paper with certainty. "All these years, whenever you or the company were in trouble, I was there. Without hesitation, I gave everything. And now, you've left me with nothing." He thought bitterly. As a result, all the assets left by the comrades to Darien were exhausted.

He signed the papers, his heart heavy but his mind clear. With a sense of finality, Darien handed the signed agreement back to Lillian, his touch devoid of warmth. Cersei, for her part, remained silent, her eyes betraying no hint of the love that once was.

"But after today, everything will be different," Darien murmured to himself, a quiet resolve building within him. "Cersei Smith doesn't know what she's losing. And as for the prophet, his time will come again."

 Darien was feeling a jumble of memories and emotions that no one else could understand. He had loved, supported, and sacrificed without measure, and in return, he was being discarded, his contributions ignored and thrown away.

Lillian's voice cut through his reverie, cold and detached. "Well, I believe everything is settled then. You've made a wise decision, Mr. French. It's best for everyone."

Cersei stood up, her movements signaling the end of the meeting. With a curt nod, she turned to leave, her heels clicking against the floor.

Darien's ears caught the sound of his cane clattering to the floor. "My stick..." he started to say, but his words were lost in the bustle of the café.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Lillian said in a tone devoid of sincerity. "How clumsy of me." Yet, she made no move to retrieve it.

Cersei paused for a split second, her eyes flicking to the fallen cane, but then she continued on her way, choosing to ignore the plight of the man she once vowed to stand by.

Darien let out a long sigh, feeling the isolation wash over him as the sounds of the city outside mingled with the chatter of the café. He reached out tentatively, attempting to locate his lifeline amidst the chaos of noise.

Just as panic began to settle in, an unexpected kindness intervened. A stranger's hand gently placed the cane back into Darien's waiting palm. "You dropped this," said a voice, warm and devoid of pity.