Hades' Cursed Luna novel Chapter 350

Chapter 350: Gift To Him

Eve

The next morning was overcast, the sky hanging low like it knew what we were about to do.

I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling slightly as I buttoned Elliot’s shirt. His small frame was still sleepy, his eyes bleary but trusting as he tilted his head to let me adjust his collar.

He didn’t ask questions. He never did.

Not with words.

But his eyes always asked enough for both of us.

The suit hung loosely on his shoulders—tailored, yes, but still foreign to him. He’d never worn black before. Not like this. Not with meaning.

He kicked his feet a little as he sat on the wooden chest at the foot of my bed, clutching his favorite carved wolf figurine in one hand. The other rested quietly in his lap.

I reached for the tie.

The dark navy one Hades had chosen.

But it felt... heavier today. Like grief had woven itself between the threads.

I looped it carefully around his neck, letting the ends slide through my fingers with mechanical precision. Half-Windsor. Just like Danielle used to tie for Hades on rare council days.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat.

"You’re going to be very brave today," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Braver than anyone in that room."

He blinked up at me.

Then, slowly, he raised one small hand and rested it over mine—right where I held the knot.

And just like that, I broke.

Not outwardly. Not enough to scare him. But inside, something caved.

Because this child—this beautiful, resilient soul—was about to say goodbye to a mother he barely remembered.

And I was helping him do it.

I smoothed down the tie, then rested my hand on his cheek. "Do you remember her?" It was a stupid to asking, especially knowing how she died. He had barely been an hour hold.

But Elliot had always been one of those children.

The kind that seemed to know more than they should.

The kind that carried things—memories, feelings, shadows—that were far too heavy for such small hands.

He bore it quietly, never asking for help, never realizing he was drowning under the weight of things no child should be asked to hold.

And gods, I wanted to release that weight.

I wanted to pry it from his shoulders, stitch up the holes it had torn in him, and tell him he could rest—that someone else would carry it now. That he didn’t have to keep remembering what should’ve never touched him in the first place.

But I couldn’t.

Not today.

Today, we were the ones who would carry her.

Today, grief would walk with us, hand in hand, dressed in ceremonial black and bitter silence.

I smoothed down the tie, then rested my hand on his cheek.

He looked down, his fingers tightening slightly around the carved wolf. His lips pressed together, like he was chewing on something heavy. Then—slowly, so slowly—he signed.

"She screamed."

My blood ran cold.

Elliot didn’t look up at me, just kept his gaze low, like saying the words too loudly might summon ghosts.

"She screamed really loud."

My hands stilled on the tie. My heart climbed into my throat.

Elliot hesitated, fingers trembling a little now.

Then he signed again, more slowly, more uncertainly:

"She begged Mama not to kill her."

I froze.

Every inch of me turned to ice.

"I remember her hands," he continued, blinking hard. "They were shaking, but she held me. Tight. Like she was trying to make me invisible. She... she didn’t want me to get hurt."

His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t cry. He was just... saying it.

Like he was talking about a feeling he’d carried his whole life without knowing why.

"I remember that," he whispered aloud now, not signing. "I remember her arms. I remember the way it felt... like she was trying to keep me inside her. So they couldn’t take me."

He went quiet.

Then, almost like it hurt to say it, he added:

"I don’t remember her face. But Mama said I looked like her."

He glanced up at me, brow furrowed. The quiet storm of a child trying to understand something too big for language.

"She said I had her eyes."

He swallowed, jaw trembling for the first time.

"And she hated me for it."

Oh gods.

The floor fell out from under me.

I knelt in front of him so quickly the bed creaked behind me, my hands cupping his tiny face before he could look away. His eyes—Danielle’s eyes—were wide and brimming but still dry.

"Your real mama didn’t hate you," I said, voice shaking. "She didn’t. You were the one thing she loved until the end. You hear me?"

He nodded, a little. Maybe.

I kissed his forehead, then leaned mine against his, breathing through the ache.

Elliot shifted slightly beneath my hands, his brows drawing together as something flickered across his face—something too old for his age. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, struggling to form the words.

Finally, in a voice as soft as the spaces between sobs, he asked:

"Is that why... she waited?"

I blinked.

He looked up at me with searching eyes. "Is that why she didn’t go in the ground yet? She waited for me... until I was a big boy. So I could say goodbye?"

Oh, gods.

The answer lodged like glass in my throat.

Because the truth was uglier than that.

Because Danielle had not been preserved out of love.

She had been sealed in cold silence, entombed in sterile sanctity not to give anyone peace... but because Montegue—her father—had refused to let her go until someone paid for her death.

Until the murderer was found.

"I’m scared it’s really goodbye," he choked. "Like... goodbye-goodbye." fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

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