5- ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST, AND SO HE DESCENDS

The bells of the hall chimed gold as Adithya was led across the white marble. The altar was no stone. It breathed beneath his bare feet, dark marble pulsing faintly as though it shared a heart with the heavens.

Around him, the circle of thrones loomed: gold, iron, shadow, seafoam, flame. Gods sat draped in their dominions. Their gazes pressed down heavier than the sky.

“Let the tribunal begin.”

The words rang out from Zeus, voice carrying the crack of thunder, his throne a tempest of storm clouds.

He breathed slowly. The air was thin here, heavy with incense that was not burned by mortal hands.

And shadows moved across him.

“You burned a town, a town by the sea where mortals—my mortals—spent their leisure. Do you think they wanted this from you? Do you think you even have the right to stand before us, unwavering as you are, when you scorch what we Gods strive to preserve?”

The words cut across Adi, each syllable a tiny nick across his poorly sheathed anger. Yet, his tongue remained stone.

“Yet, he burns not for destruction,” Artemis said, “I speak for my vessel when I point out the potential in him—”

“—potential for destruction?” Shamash interrupted, “Watch yourself, huntress. A fire unchecked devours its bearer as surely as it does the forest. Still… I see a spark of something else. Discipline, perhaps. Or madness. Which it becomes—” he waved a hand dismissively, “—time will tell.”

“Yet destruction,” Shiva said, “leads to rebirth. But, not now, not yet.”

Poseidon’s trident struck the ground, the area erupting in seafoam, “He razes civilisations. Should we forget this? Should we forgive this? Let him answer before his flame consumes more.”

Adithya’s jaw held, remembering the screams and wails, the odour of charred skin against flame. His nails dug into his palm, angry red crescents of regret etched into the flesh. Hestia cleared her throat, “He carries fire, yes… but tell me—when has fire ever been purely destruction?” Her voice glowed like embers, a persuasive tone permeating every word. “A hearth sustains a home. A torch guides. A pyre honours the dead. Shall we condemn a flame because it may burn? Or shall we guide it, so it warms instead?”

Indra bellowed in laughter, “Look at this little spark, rousing flames and priding himself to be one of us. Disgraceful.”

Adithya clenched his teeth, muscle ticking as he held back both flame and claw. His azure would have been enough to rival Indra’s storm, and yet, here he stood, head bowed in passive acceptance of his fate. The helplessness brought back memories he'd worked hard to repress and failed. Memories of vulnerable weakness, voices digging into him like swords out of the forge fires.

Jewels clinked as Hera stood, robes glittering with venomous beauty. She circled Adithya like a lioness around prey.

“A child with fire is no man. You cling to destruction like an infant to its mother’s breast. Disorder. That is what you are. And disorder, left unchecked, devours realms.” The words landed like embers, each word singeing his skin. He could not fight back, no, only accept the judgment meted out to him with gritted teeth.

Her hand brushed his shoulder, deceptively tender. Adithya flinched—the warmth was false, suffocating. The touch felt like sweet poison — deceptively deadly.

She leaned close, voice sweet and dripping acid. “You are no god. Only a wound pretending to be a flame.” Her words were accompanied by silence, punctuated by the clink of her jewels alone.

The Queen returned to her throne, the air stinging with her scorn.

Indra laughed, “Oh, how quickly do mortals fall to ruin when given playthings painted gold.”

Hera smirked, “Finally, a man who knows a spade from a bag of hearts.” Yet the apologetic hesitation of the woman who hosted her—her fidgeting hands were not well-hidden despite the Goddess forcing her to stop—showed.

But Indra’s eyes narrowed, “Dare you think that I am your ally, woman. I stand above your petty grievances!”

Hera’s smirk faltered, her eyes widening, “H-How dare you—”

Vishnu’s sweet voice rang true from the corner, everyone gazing upon him, “Careful, Queen. You seem to have a side picked already. But this isn’t a family squabble at a dining table. If you choose to pick sides, perhaps we should hold a tribunal for you, too?”

Hera’s face reddened purple, but the heeled footsteps of Amaterasu interrupted Hera’s whining, robes of dawn spilling across the floor. “My fire nurtures. His burns. Yet fire is neither good nor evil—it is the wielder who shapes it. Adithya, your intent… is noble. But your hands—” she faltered, almost pained, “—are stained. Stained too deep for denial.”

The words stung deep, cutting too true for him to be angry. What did others care for intention, when the actions, his actions, hurt them so? Adi stared at the marble between his feet, feeling the icy air in his lungs exit in long, ragged breaths.

Her solemn gaze lingered on him longer than the others, as though seeing something none of them could.

From the roots of the dais, Pan speaking from Kaeda, grinned widely, the eyes that were once sunset orange, now as green as a swamp, “Adithya Naicker.” The voice sounded like rustling leaves, “You have burned and boiled until your flames wavered, and yet I sense the dissonance of sorrow.” He faced the council, “The man is wild, yet the wild can be tamed with patience and kindness—or better yet, the wild can be embraced.”

“A child with fire is no man.” Hera cried, voice sharp like shrapnel, anger pooling in her irises. “Adithya clings to destruction like a dog to its master. And we are to call this godhood? No—this is discord given form. The world needs order. I demand he be cast down.”

Her words hung like poison smoke, but Athena immediately cut through it.

“Careful, Hera. To speak of ‘unrestrained anger’—you, who cursed mortals in spite, who cast out Hephaestus for his form? If Adithya is guilty, then so are you, Queen. You see recklessness. I see potential. Anger does not make him unworthy—only untempered.” She glanced at Hera, then Poseidon. “Would you have cast aside Hephaestus for his crooked form? Or Ares for his endless bloodlust? No. You allowed them to grow into their flaws. And now you condemn him for the same?”

Her words cut cold, but her gaze on Adithya held a flicker of something steadier—belief.

Hera snapped back, too quickly. “Do not compare me to this rabid mortal.”

Athena tilted her head, calm, surgical. “I do not compare. And besides, he is a mortal chosen to wield the power of a Goddess, so a God he is. And may I remind you. You sit on a throne built from your own bitterness, but you haven’t been judged yet, have you?”

The hall shuddered with quiet laughter. Hera seethed, and as if on cue, Ares smashed his fist onto the throne, not being able to stay seated, knuckles whitening on his spear.

“This bastard deserves his skull crushed now, judged later! Too much talk, too little blood!”

Athena sighed, exasperated. “Do you ever contribute anything besides bloodlust, warmonger? This is a court, not your sparring pit.”

Ares sneered. “Better blood than cowardice dressed as reason.”

The chamber muttered, half-amusement, half irritation. Vishnu chuckled, “Patience, warrior. ‘Strike first, think later’ is good on battlefields, but dreadful in courts. Unless you’d prefer we vote your battles next?”

Ares scowled, but said nothing.

Suddenly, the blue flames rose from Adithya’s body, enveloping him, the Gods recognising the presence, the scent of flame and blood choking the air.

“He is mine,” Chinnamasta spoke through Adithya, the three eyes glowing like infernos that could smoulder a city. She tore from within him, echoing in his bones, carried on his own breath. Her presence bled through his veins, her eyes staring out through his. “He is mine, and yet he is not. Ask him, if you must, but know this—I chose him. And choice itself bears power. Anyone who dares question me shall taste my wrath.”

The circle of gods stirred, thrones shifting, eyes glimmering. Each question hung heavy in the air, binding Adithya to answer, not as pawn nor vessel—but as himself.

“They call me the Protector for a reason.” Vishnu's voice broke the icy silence, carrying a timbre of justice, “Innocent until proven guilty. Strange, isn’t it, how gods forget their own rules when pride is pricked?”

The chamber bristled. Vishnu only smiled, infuriating, disarming, impossible to pin down.

“Now speak.” Athena’s eyes sharpened on him, her words cutting clean. “Answer wisely. Not with pride, nor with borrowed strength. Who are you, without the goddess bound to you?”

Adi heaved a breath, “I won’t beg or plead,” he said, words bleeding anger, “Yet, I refuse to be judged by Gods who speak of matters like this, as if they are blind to their own hypocrisy!”

The crowd froze, eyes narrowing, eyes widening. His eyes fell on the Gods, some meeting his gaze with anger, others with pride, others with sadness. And then he saw a face.

Esphyr. No….

“You….” he said, his flame rising. Yet the girl did not waver.

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice dripping with so much wrath that even Ares faltered. “Here to take me as you had taken her?”

Thanatos laughed, shaking his head, “Oh, how I’ve tried. I’ve seen you yearn for me like a maiden for her lover, but my arms falter as azure shields you from my embrace.”

Adithya spat a laugh, “Ha! Death can have me when it earns me.”

“And yet, you wait with open arms. Therefore, I’ll stand with Esphyr. I’ll see what fate has in store for you, little spark. And then, come back to me and tell me if you yearn once more.”

Then almost instantaneously, the shadows moulded into shape, rising from the ground, the stench of death stronger than ever. Ereshkigal leaned forward from her shadowed throne, her gaze fixed on him—not with longing, but with a hungry protectiveness. “He is mine,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the hall like a cold draught through stone. “Not as a lover, but as a rare thing — someone who does not turn from me. You will not strip him from me.”

A ripple of discontent rose among the gods.

Poseidon scoffed, trident clanging against the floor. “You clutch him like a child clutching driftwood. Let him prove himself in the sea, then—if he survives, he is yours. If not, he was never worth holding.”

A faint laugh rose from the shadows, Hermes leaning lazily against his staff. “Always the same, Poseidon. Everything is a tide to you—wash in, wash out.” he waved his hand. “Do not judge a child of fire against the waters.” He cut Poseidon off before he could answer back, tilting his head toward Adithya. “But tell me, mortal, do you choose her shadows, or do you merely fear being cast adrift?”

Before Adithya could answer, Ereshkigal’s voice sharpened. “Do not mock this. He walked willingly by my side. Few among you would do the same without trembling.” Adi could feel the possessive pride radiating off of her. It nursed a strange sense of comfort in him, a slow warmth nestling in his stomach.

From the far side, Hestia stirred—her mortal vessel, a gentle woman cloaked in white flame, spoke in her stead. “It is no small thing,” the vessel murmured, warmth threading her tone. “The hearth welcomes those who endure loneliness without bitterness. He has that in him. I would not see him thrown aside.”

“Soft words, as always, sister,” Ares sneered, sparks dancing at his fingertips. “But kindness does not crown heroes. Test him in fire, in blood, in the clash of steel. Only then shall we see if he is more than a frightened boy cradled by shadows.”

A deeper presence rippled through the hall—Vishnu’s voice, serene yet carrying the weight of oceans. “Ares, your eyes see only in battle lines. But this tribunal is not merely to test his strength. Adithya walks a path threaded with gods and mortals alike, just like the rest of us here. If he falters in compassion, he will fail greater than if he dies in combat.” As always, his words quieted the gathering.

His gaze fell upon Adithya, eyes bright and searching, “Will you uphold dharma, even when no one watches?”

Ereshkigal rose, shadows clinging to her like loyal hounds. “He already has. I have watched him sit in silence with the dead. I have seen him speak to shades as though they were living. You know nothing of what it means to be seen when forgotten by all else.”

Apollo, golden and sharp, leaned forward with a smirk. “And yet, dear queen of shadows, possessiveness is not proof. You call him a friend, but you sound more like a jealous sibling guarding their toy.”

Her eyes flashed, cold as obsidian. “Better a jealous sibling than a god who turns mortals into ash for amusement.”

Apollo stood, his bow ready, shadowy hands sweeping at him. But just as they were to reach him, they stopped. Adithya’s hand held hers, the man shaking his head. A spectre too, shielded the sun God from those arms, the Gods’ gaze turning to Hades, who sat on his throne with a glare. The Goddess sighed and faded, leaving only Daphne next to him, still clinging.

Hades stood, “...I’m with him.”

Adithya’s jaw fell, “You…of all Gods, you?”

“You’ve wrestled despair longer than most. You may not see it, but I do.”

It wasn’t kindness, nor mercy—simply recognition. Adithya didn’t know whether to feel grateful or condemned. The Gods all let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding as murmurs and whispers filled the air.

“Order!” Zeus yelled, “We shall cast our votes.”

And then, the seats would glow green or red, for or against, whether to keep him or to discard him.

And the votes were cast to do the latter.

Adithya could only bow in disappointment laced with reluctant acceptance. He had seen it coming; he hardly deserved to be put between the likes of the rest of them, but the dagger still twisted deep into his gut, a clenching pain in his chest that made it hard to breathe. Before silence could claim the chamber, Daphne’s cat-like cry fell like daggers to the skull. She lunged at Odin, sobbing, clawing.

“Don’t you dare—don’t you dare cast him down like he’s nothing! He is my friend! The only one who ever stayed with me in the dark!”

And the hall darkened. Shadows spilt like smoke, writhing, coiling. Ereshkigal herself manifested, her vessel trembling beneath her presence. Her hands—shadowed, infinite—slid through Adithya’s hair with terrifying tenderness.

“You will not take him from me. He is mine. My friend!”

The gods recoiled, some mocking, others terrified.

Hera sneered, “Look at her—clinging like a widow to a corpse.”

Ares laughed cruelly, “So this is his great defence? A weeping shadow-wife?”

Odin muttered coldly, “Possession is not protection. Even gods should remember that.”

But Ereshkigal’s shadows only clung tighter. Adithya did not resist.

Then Vishnu stepped forward, caressing the werecat without hesitation, “Calm yourself, feline.” he smiled, “Even fires fade, but embers remain. Let the man burn as a mortal. In time, he will grow.”

The Goddess and her vessel stopped, soothed by Narayana’s gesture.

“You…” Ereshkigal said, “You…touched me…”

“Yes,” he smiled, “Mortals and Gods are afraid of the inevitable. Perhaps he too befriends death in the aim of getting close to it. Is that how you want him to live, Goddess of Irkalla?”

She faltered, looking at Adithya. This time, Daphne’s voice came out in choked tears, “Next time we see each other, I want booze with you, okay?”

Adithya smiled sadly but nodded wordlessly.

And then, he was torn away, the last words coming from Hestia.

“No matter where you go, you’ll always have a hearth.”

He smiled.

He wept.

And he fell.