"Metis..." Hades repeated. And then he felt the emotions coming on so hard and quick that he could not stifle them. His shoulders shook as he began to weep. He buried his fingers in Prometheus' wings as the cavalcade overtook him.

What would Master Metis think about everything he'd been doing? He had searched, searched for a bloodless way. He had spent thousands of years in isolation, in grieving and depression. And still he carried on, marching to the beat of Zodiark's drum. And where had it led him?

He was never happier when a calamity struck, merely grimly hopeful. And when they finally did succeed, what was left for them? How would anyone truly accept what they had done when they had not watched it happen?

Their people had become divided in the time between Zodiark and Hydaelyn, after all. He wondered miserably about how Metis would speak to him now. Would she reject him outright? Condemn what he had done? She had offered herself up that others may live, after all. She believed in the convocation, that they would do right, that they might save their people, their children.

Hades wailed softly into Prometheus' wing, muffling himself into his arm.