The embers of heat wane out, giving way to cinnamon breezes and napalm hues to the sullen horizons. The once abundant wheat fields turn to scarce lands as nature takes its course, winnowing away memories of childlike springs and summer love to give way to winter as floral footsteps make their way through the brazen fields.
Once, the same pair of feet would run in circles around the oak trees in matching crowns of daffodils and sunflowers, and Demeter would chide her young Kore for reckless behavior for the maiden might end up lost in the endless fields, away from her sight, a thing she could never once bear.
How comical. The goddess of spring remarks in retrospect, turning over a leaf and the skies mimic her actions. Blooming azures turn to a canvas of ash.
Her feet move to an unknown rhythm, for she pays no heed to her consciousness, her body knows the path all too well.
At the end of the pale green fields, she picks the fruit, glittering like a ruby in the shrubs, a small jewel, a butterfly in a storm.
Was it a bait or her way for agency? She cant bring herself to care enough to answer that annoying, probing thought.
A deathly cool breeze flows past her as thunder rumbles. She feels the first drop of precipitation hit her hair.
Goodbye mother.
The ground cracks open.
She breathes in death.
it’s raining in the underworld, odd. But she has seen enough idiosyncrasies in her immortal lifespan to not question what happens when and why.
The boats are overfilling, the Angel Of Death must be working overtime, Nyx’s son must be grumbling to his lord for better payment, she’s sure.
A ghostly laugh escapes her, styx cold rain patters her gown.
She’s walked through the gates, through the grounds and passed by the judgement hall, cursing and giving the occasional nod to her wraithlike attendees who’ve noticed her arrival and immediately proceeded to jump at her feet, planting soft suggestions for a freshen up of appearance after looking at her drenched state, to which their lady promptly declines, stating a matter far more important at hand that needs attention.
Where is Hades?
She finds her answer snoozing soundlessly under a pile of papers in his study.
Quietly, she lays her hand on his ink black hair and murmurs in a tongue that sounds sweet as honey, before wrapping a silk blanket over his lanky, sprawled stature.
They say the gods are cold, they have no emotion, for they are creatures of endless cruelty and malice, hardened over the endless period of time, with no room for warmth left in them.
Yet why is it when she gazes at her husband’s loving face, the world around her starts to fade?
The queen of the underworld sits at her throne, Hecate is fussing over her gown and feeding her with tales from six months prior when the throne room’s doorways slam open.
A face as still as marble cuts a figure in the shadows, a storm brews inside him.
All at once, the chattering comes to a halt, the butterfly flaps its wings.
The court is in session, their king is here.
But all Persephone sees is a lover stupefied by her, her husband, her hades, her love-
Six months. For a face he longed to see the most, no matter how many times the wretched cycle repeats, seeing his queen seated next to him, glowing with love, lighting up the halls, lighting up his life, it shakes him to the core.
A hurricane of emotions rain across his face and the lord of the underworld is flooded with happiness.
Persephone calls out his name, a faint whisper, an echo that haunts him in the best way possible.
The only way he will ever allow.
And he runs along the winds to his wife.
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