Archive of Our Own

Mount Olympus has always been your home.

Since your birth, and presumably for the rest of your eternal life. You spent all of your time running through your mother's vast fields of grain, and cultivating your own garden of flowers. All of them various colors, of various shapes and statures. But all equally beautiful in your eyes. Of course, how could anything you create be less than just that? The flowery goddess of the spring-as your mother so endearingly calls you. Your entire life was encapsulated by sunshine, rainbows and blooms. Every step you took through that vast field flowers bloomed from. All around you did the flowers sing to you their song, lifting you up on their wings as you frolick.

Your mother, Demeter, knew where you were at all times. She kept you on a tight leash, wrapped around her finger, but only to keep you safe. She wanted what was best for you. She didn't even let you see the other gods-not usually, at least. She only made an exception during the solstices, and even then you could always feel her breathing down your neck. Worst of all, she would have you exiled if you ever even thought of pursuing something romantic with another god. You were her baby, her little girl-she couldn't stand to see you be involved with another god or goddess. Least of all a demigod-and she would have you killed if you even thought about being intimate with a human. So you never were. Never even thought of being with another. You were content to simply roam through her endless fields.

You're running blissful and free as you usually are, skirts hiked up with your hands to keep you from tripping. Your chest is free, but you don't even notice. Such a thing is normal for you. It's what's comfortable. But today, during your usual escapade, you spot something out of the ordinary. Unlike anything you've ever seen before. You bend down and pluck the delicate yellow flower from it's home in the ground below. It sticks out to you-as unlike all the other flowers, there's none identical to it around. The smell of it is better than any other scent-rivaling the sweetness of sugar. Smelling of heady florals and vanilla; the flower's head is like a golden trumpet blooming forth from it's white petals. You know not the name of such a wondrous plant, for you haven't thought of what to call it yet. The flower is unlike any others in the fields in which you frolick, not alike anything you'd ever seen. You turn it over between your fingers by the stem, admiring it as it seems to drink up the sun greedily. As if it knows it does not belong in this place. The fauna around you seem to have stopped singing to you, their voices faint and in the distance. The fields of Olympus have always sung to you their soft, welcoming chorus. But the voice of the flowers is different now. Deeper. Like the abyss given voice.

You're knocked down to your knees when the ground opens up before you, what emerges from beneath casting a shadow over you and the flowers. You look up, expecting to see clouds moving in to cover the sun. But what greets you is a feat of industrial strength. Horses as black as night and with manes made of shadows trot forth, their hooves suspened midair as the grandness of what they pull bursts forth. Wheels of blackened ivory spin, silver accents like thorns wrapped around the bearings and up the coach of the carriage. It's a chariot, you realize now once it's fully emerged and settled onto the earth. It spills out of the fissure it's created in the dirt, splitting the ground as a faint aqua mist begins to pour from the rift's yawning mouth. Cold like breath as it tickles your bare feet. 

You drop the golden flower.

Your instincts tell you to run, and you know it'd be best if you listened. Like how prey knows the moment before the inevitable strike. Yet you do not. Don't even breathe until you realize and release a big breath you'd kept locked up in your lungs. Your curiosity roots you in place where you're sat, firm as an olive tree. The fissure widens as the rest of the carriage is pulled through. The horses huff, that same green hue escaping from their nostrils as if they were breathing rotten air. You stare down into the abyss that now stretches through your once peaceful fields-the place you're certain that all things go to die. From that darkness does he emerge, the doors to the chariot bursting open when he splits them with his arms. You look upon this strange figure in awe-he's unlike any god you've ever seen before. Or goddess, for that matter. When he pads down the steps of his chariot his heavy boots of lead clamor, metal against metal. He drops down onto the ground and a bit of dust kicks up from under his feet. Flowers turn towards the ground in a bow and wilt under his touch. His black armor as dark as night and forged by it you're certain- the sunshine seeming not to reflect off it but be swallowed up by it's void. He wears a helmet carved of either bone or metal, you're unsure-with a curved great beak coming down to his nose. The mouth of it is open and yawning, though his face is shadowed by the bird's beak. Realizing you can't see him like this, he reaches up and lifts the helmet off his head, instead holding it against his hip.

His hair spills out of it as soon as it's released from it's confines, long, wavy white locks like silk that reach nearly down to his waist. The contrast of his dark armor and his bright hair is stark to your eyes. His eyes..piercing dark blue, vast and deep like your uncle's oceans. He quickly sheds his armor and it disappears as soon as it leaves his body, revealing a broad chest with outlines of muscle just peeking through gaps in his ornate, silver embroidered black robes. He looks down at you with those cyan swirls, endlessly swallowing themselves as he perceives you. Then, he smiles.

He's...beautiful.

And his eyes are sharper than blades as he looks you up and down, noticing your state of undress. The skirts pooled around your waist concealed your goddesshood, but above, your breasts were free and kissed by the warm winds that blew through the grain. You never thought it strange until he set his eyes upon you in such a way, fixed by the sight of you and making eye contact with your nipples. You bring your hands up to cover yourself, feeling bashful before him. For the first time, you felt embarassed. It was such a strange thing, a feeling you'd never even conceived of before. Your mother never made you cover up, for she believed in the divine beauty of the natural female form, and was often nude herself. But he..dressed so elegantly, and reserved, flipped your understanding. Were you not proper? Something unfamiliar swirls in the oceans of his eyes, something you don't recognize but know is longing. An aching and endless want for something. Little did your innocent mind know, he longed for you. You, who is so perfectly inexperienced so as to not notice the lecherousness of him, how lust plagued his mind like swarms of locusts to the field. It feels as though he's not seeing you, rather claiming you, even with just a simple gaze. Like he's measuring the shape and depth of your soul and heart, loving how perfectly it fits into the hollow emptiness he carries in his own chest. You're just so young, so full of life, compared to himself, the very god of the underworld. Surrounded by death so much that he begins to resemble and embody it himself. When he finally speaks, he sounds so proper, so elegant, that it takes you a bit by surprise.

"Persephone," He says your given name so sweetly. It doesn't even sound like your own when it's on his tongue. It sounds heavier, older and wiser. Like the name of a wise goddess rather than a simple blooming one. He says your name as if you belong to him. "You do not know me, but I know you well." A smile touches his lips, and you can't help but find such a thing so beautiful. Beautiful and terrible, so sharp enough to draw blood. "I have been watching you for longer than you know, goddess of Spring. Daughter of abundance." His gaze drops finally from your chest down to your bare feet, unmarred by the scrapes of thorns or the painful pricks of rocks. No, you know this land well enough that it refuses to hurt you. When you were a child, maybe you had a few scratches here and there, but you were always cared for. The very land seemed to coddle you in an embrace, bringing you the peace in knowing it loves you. This you know for certain. "Goodness incarnate." He calls you. Something coils deep in your stomach at his words-unease? Flattery? You're unsure. Perhaps it's fear, entwined with fascination for this strange man. This peculiar god. "Who are you?" You ask, though it's a silly question. He steps closer now, his black sandals matching the inkiness of the flowers he kills with each step. With every stride and every inch closer he gets you feel colder. Frost creeps onto the grass, the petals darkening and wilting. He stands before you now, still looking you up and down like a work of art. "I am Hades," He tells you. "..God of the Underworld. Lord of the dead and of endings." Hades. The Underworld's great god. The sovereign of what all mortals fear most.

The Underworld's king.

Echoes of your mother's many warnings about your other uncle-the one in which you were told to never speak of, for he's a disgrace-echo in your mind. Warning you to keep your distance, to keep your fear of him. For nothing good comes when the bringer of death is in town. You've been told he's a god who only takes, never gives. That he's selfish, cold and cruel. Unfeeling. Incapable of compassion or empathy. Standing before you, this great and feared god-he doesn't feel like you imagined him to be. He seems lighter, softer. His appearance certainly doesn't befit that of what the other gods whisper as a monster. "You do not belong in this world," He begins. "...not above, but below." His words are spoken softly so as to not frighten you too much. But the implication is enough to send chills down your spine, as he bends down to meet eyes with you. He's so close now-almost uncomfortably so. His hand rises, and with a carefulness unbefitting of a ruthless monster, his fingers hover just shy of your cheek. But he doesn't touch you. You shake your head. "I don't know what you mean. This is my home." You tell him, looking up at him with eyes as wide as suns and as gentle as a doe's. He smiles a knowing smile, like he knows something you don't. "You may believe yourself to be loved by this place, but..you are not known. Not seen." That smile settles like cement onto his face, and he offers you his hand. The horses of his drawn chariot huff, green mist pouring from their nostrils.

"I see you."

Before you can answer him, the earth below you shakes. You gasp as the ground trembles, perfectly clean fingernails clawing into the dirt as if it could be some kind of anchor. Like a lifeline. You can hear the flowers around you practically screaming as Hades' frost overtakes their once pristine petals and paints them with rot, devouring them. The warmth of the skies that once kissed your skin so pleasantly is replaced by an unbearable chill that steals your breath, lashing at your flesh with it's icy tongue. You almost take his hand-not because you agree to go with him, but because you seek the warmth of his touch. You stumble to your feet and scramble backward, shaking your head. "Hades," You start to speak, and he's already advancing on you. In one great step he's closed the distance between you two, far faster than any god of Olympus. Well, second only to Hermes. His shadow swallows you up in it's darkness, eclipsing the very sun as he stands over you, towering over your short stature. Suddenly, your mother's fields don't seem quite so endless but rather impossibly small. His fist closes around your delicate wrist, not rough but firm. Firm enough you know that to struggle would be in vain. Cold blossoms across your skin where he touches you, cold like the kiss of death. You cry out and try to pull away, feet digging into the upturned dirt, skidding uselessly beneath you. "Let go! I...I want my mother! She'll be here soon, and-" He cuts you off with a laugh resounding from deep in his empty chest, a hearty sound. It's the most alive he's sounded in the short amount of time you've known him. Panic surges and runs through your veins like a drug, blinding your senses and causing you to thrash and kick. Rather unbecoming, but he pays no mind. Your heart beats so fast it hurts. "She would not come in time, I'm afraid."

The ground splits wider beneath you, and your foot slips. You scream as the earth gives way, tearing apart like a fibrous fruit. You dangle above the abyss, suspended by his tight grasp on your arm. You stare down into the abyss, and it stares back at you. Darkness and green mist emerging from the mouth of the void is all that greets you. You can't even see the bottom, and that's what scares you most. Just how far would you fall if he let go? You're adjusted rather violently as Hades pulls you back into his chest, away from the open pit beneath you, one arm around your waist as the other lets go of your arm and tugs the fabric tied around your waist up over your breasts. You grasp for him and hold on without even meaning to, relieved just to not be dangled over a gaping hole. He then reaches down, one arm behind the back of your legs, and scoops you right up into his arms. You can't find it in yourself to fight it, though, and hold onto him tight. You're still shaken up from nearly meeting death. He seems amused by how desperately you cling to him, not putting up a fight as he carries you to his chariot and lays you onto the seat inside. He doesn't join you in the carriage and instead climbs up onto the high seat outside, above the horses. He gathers the reins in his hand and with the other fashions his whip from seemingly nothing at all-and whips the mares as black as night into motion. The silver wheels scrape the earth as you begin your descent, dragged into the mouth of the beast that is the Underworld. Like a madman he whips those poor horses' rumps to go faster, faster, faster-though you doubt they can feel anything at all. Cold air rushes past you, nipping at your skin as you descend further and further. The light above shrinks rapidly into a mere little dot then fades into nothingness. The pure blue of the sky you've known all your life is swallowed up by the darkness. The warmth you once knew is replaced by a chill that's bone-deep and sits in the pit of your soul. The descent is seemingly endless, the shadows coiling like serpents around the chariot. You can feel them reaching for you, aching to welcome you to the land of the dead. They brush your skin like hands, the memory of warm flesh. You whimper at the feel of their filthy touch and press your back against the latticed window of the carriage. 

Then, at last, the fall seems to slow and even out.

The chariot settles onto solid ground once more, silver wheels screaming as they screech to a sudden halt, settled upon tiles of obsidian. Hades steps down from the chariot first and circles around the back to open the door for you. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms. You barely resist now, shaking and exhausted from your fall from grace, your body numb from the cold and fear. You look up from his chest to gaze at the dark purple sky, indigo and speckled with little sickly stars. It's a seemingly endless void from which you can no longer see the sun, only the eternal night. Rivers of flowing black ink run through the land, and when you squint, you swear you see hands reaching up to grab you. Spires of dark purpose are illuminated only by lime green flame, and that same mist followed you here. Towers of bone, monuments to the dead sprout from the ground. There are no flowers, no plants, no trees here. Only the dead. The air smells of ichor and rot, but Hades carries you like a precious crown jewel through it all. As if he hasn't just ripped you free from everything you've ever known-torn you from the life you once lived. His sandals pad against the cobblestone path as he leads you through cities inhabited by poor souls, and through endless asphodel meadows-what he calls limbo. You press closer to the god who has taken you, frightened by the sight of all these poor destitute souls. This place is wrong. "You will not be harmed here," He reassures you, though it does little to sway you. He seems to notice he hasn't done much to change your mind, and adds, "..you will be the queen of all that you can see. Nothing will touch you without my knowing and permission." You look up at him through your eyes blurred by tears and lashes, and you can feel your heart breaking just that little bit more with each step he takes as he leads you through his realm and to his home. "You can't expect to keep me." You whisper, though your words do little to change his mind. It seems he's set. And he does not answer you right away. 

He carries you through the tall black gates that make up the entrance of his palace, an equally tall fence with sharp spires reaching to the sky. He then unlocks the doors to his palace with a touch of his fingertip, the obsidian doors parting for him without a word. The walls of his home are carved with stories long forgotten, dying suns, fallen kings and depictions of lovers lost in their final embraces. The doors don't make so much as a yawning sound even as they open. The inside of his home isn't as cold as you anticipated it would be-perhaps even the god of death doesn't like when his feet grow too cold. "I do not expect you to stay." He finally says, and you let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he does see reason-

"I know you will."

That frightens you more than the threat of falling into an endless abyss ever could.

The palace is roomy and open like a cavern, the ceilings covered with paintings and with columns carved from bone and onyx holding it up. Pale green flames are lit, contained by black metal lanterns. Servants of the dead bow as he passes with you in his arms, some wearing their usual restrained expressions while others look at you curiously. The shades lower their heads, their hollow eyes making you uneasy as you can't quite tell what they're thinking. Or if they're even capable of individual thought. Some of them whisper amongst themselves, while others eternally weep. A few reach out to you but recoil as if they've been burned when their actions earn a frightening glare from the man who's taken you. You realize then just how afraid of him they are, as they all straighten up and reform their perfectly straight lines, just waiting for his order. And he seems to like the control he has over them. Once you've reached the end of the hall Hades sets you down gently on his throne, carved of dark stone and veined with silver. It's surface is colder than ice despite the heat in the room, and you shiver once you're sat upon it. He kneels before you-as if he is not the mightier god but a mere peasant-and you look down at him with curious eyes. 'Is this what it feels like being prayed to?' You think. Your mother has many devout followers and she always told you stories of the offerings they'd leave her and the lengths they went to just to appease her-each feat greater than the last. You always wondered when you would get your first act of devotion. This certainly isn't what you expected. "You're trembling." He murmurs. His hands hover uncertainly over your knee, no longer sure of his right to touch you. "The Underworld does not mean to harm you. It's just been so long since life has been brought here." You wrap your arms around yourself in an act of self soothing, to briefly make you forget just where you are. "Then..why bring me here? Why take me at all?" Your voice cracks as you speak, betraying you. 

His gaze lifts to yours, and he meets your eyes. Once more do you get the privilege of gazing into those beautiful blue seas, seemingly getting lost in them and drowning in their beauty. His beauty. You find something else in his gaze that wasn't so easily noticeable before, not lust or lechery, not hunger, but a terrible aching loneliness. One you've no doubt the depth of which has stretched on for eons since your birth and before it. "Your life was wasted above." He says softly, as if his words had no sting to them. "You were hidden. Sheltered. Loved, maybe, but never allowed to bloom." 

"Your mother kept you small so that you may never grow for yourself."

You shake your head. He's got it all wrong. "My mother loves me," Once again your voice trembles, betraying the depth of your emotions.

His expression is soft, and he looks down on you with pity as if he isn't the one on his knees looking up at you. "I know," He says, his voice gentler. "That's why I'm sure this hurts more." His words prick your skin and sink in like the jagged thorns of a rose. Hades rises from his knees and turns away from you, pacing the length of his great hall up and down over and over. "I have ruled this place since the first mortal learned to die." He continues. "Yet nothing here grows. Changes. No beginning, and no end." He stops and turns to look back at you then, his eyes luminous and stark against all the gloom. "Until your arrival." You? What could you possibly offer to the god of the Underworld? Though he looks upon you with reverence, as if you're a being of pure light and innocence come from above. Like something to be worshipped, cherished, most of all coveted. By him, and only him. He returns to your side and grasps the arm of his throne where you had been resting your arm, and you flinch away from him. This makes him frown, though he doesn't comment on it. You wonder then if your mother or anyone has noticed your absence, surely someone would come for you or at least be looking by now, right? Surely your mother is running to and fro through her fields of grain and flowers, running frantic like a chicken with it's head cut off. "I ask you once again." You sit up straight in his throne, daring to stare into his eyes with conviction. A will that wasn't there before. "Why have you taken me?" He sighs and leans against the arm of his throne, brushing curls out of his face. "It grows so lonely down here, year after year. And so, I made a deal with my brother." Your ears perk up. Whatever did he mean, a deal with his brother? What could he possibly offer that Zeus wanted? "Zeus," He says the name like it's a heavy weight he's just dropped. "My brother likes to dig his fingers into every affair. Likes to be in control. He does this best through bloodshed and struggle." His words are bitter in tone, as if resentful. You stiffen at the implication in his words. Zeus, king of the gods-and your uncle-the one who united the gods in Olympus. Whose voice splits the heavens when he gives an order. The god your mother reveres in some moments and hates the next. Who she feared just as much. In your mind he's all brute strength and brawn, who survives not because he is kind but because he refuses to fail. "And what of the deal?" You don't mean to whisper. Hades looks you up and down for a long moment, debating what to say or just how much he should tell you. Weighing how much truth your fragile heart can bear. 

"I asked him for you."

Your heart trips to a stop in your chest and skids in the mud of your feelings. "You..did what?" Your voice echoes far louder in the cavernous expanse of his castle. The words are sharp as you speak them, and taste bitter on your tongue even after you spit them out. A feeling unknown to you bubbles in your stomach, unlike anything you've felt before. You rise from his throne without a sound, that feeling pushing you to act rather than think. Your bare feet hit the obsidian floor beneath you with a resounding plap. When you look at his face you can see it written all over-he seems strangely proud of his actions. Like a champion who's just won their trophy. What they deserve. You don't mean to lash out at him, as he's done nothing so far but show you some kind of sympathy, but the whole situation has you at your limit. "You say that like I'm just..some...some thing! Like some commodity being traded. Like nothing more than..an object." You yell at him. He raises his finger to the sky and looks at you with a gentle expression, calmly explaining like what he's about to say is nothing more than a fact. "Not an object, a gift."

The nerve of this man...your breaths are coming in quicker than you can breathe them, your chest tight as you pull the fabric bundled around your waist over your bare chest. Taking a moment to calm down, you soothe your racing heart and take deep breaths. 'Ease, my child,' You recall your mother's words. You wet your lips before you speak. "And he said yes? So easily?" Hades' jaw is tight, like showing the cracks in his formidable exterior. "Well...it did take some convincing. Nothing is ever so easy with Zeus." At his words, you laugh. Uncontrollably as it rips through you, possessing you like an evil spirit. It surprises even you. "And the price of me? What did he ask in return?" Hades doesn't speak to you right away as he thinks of the right way to answer you. Somehow, that's worse than what his unfiltered reaction would have been. He turns away from you and walks towards one of the towering windows carved into the castle's walls, staring out at his world from above. How small it does look from up here. His hands are held behind his back and folded, his long fingers laced together perfectly. He looks so contained, so perfect, like he's been rehearsing this moment for centuries. But not a single version of it is merciful to you. You suppose it's possible he has. Was your capture predetermined? How foolish, of course it was. "This world is in perpetual imbalance. And after centuries I've grown tired of it."

"The world above has lived in abundance for as long as time can tell. Meanwhile, down here, not a single flower has grown under my hand." He raises his right hand to the window and presses his palm to the cool glass, staring at all of his little busybody souls as they go about their unlives in the Underworld. "Harvest after harvest. Unpunished and uncontrolled growth. Yet he let me live in the filth of the undergrowth, so I took it into my own hands. A flourishing kingdom was my dream, so I sought to make it reality." His hand falls from the window and he grasps his toga tight to his chest when he turns around to finally face you once more. His pale hair slips over his shoulder and shrouds half of his face in it's curls. "How could I, the god of the Underworld, possibly bring life to my domain without another? So I only asked for him to bring me equilibrium. Balance. And his answer was to bring me you." You clutch your skirts tight in your hands, fingers curling in disbelief. "Speak plainly." Hades does not hesitate with his next answer. "I need you to fulfill my dreams, Persephone." He crosses the cold floor in a few long strides, towering above you and backing you into the twisted thorny arm of his throne. "Your mother's fields will not blossom this season. The crop will rot in it's roots. Flowers will turn their heads to the ground and wither. But all of this is necessary for the Underworld's prosperity." You feel as though, once more, your world has been tilted on it's head. No more crops, no more flowers? No more life? You can't fathom such a thing. The fields have prospered for longer than you've been alive to see it. "You lie," You spit out, though you know he only speaks the truth. You witnessed the way death followed him when he crawled up from the ground, bursting forth like an unwelcome sore on the unblemished skin of the earth. You can only imagine what your absence from Olympus could bring-how will your mother ever maintain her fields without you by her side? How will the humans that live below survive? 

"I cannot lie," He seems almost mournful. "...not about this." The image of your mother plagues your mind as much as the swarms of locusts will soon take over the fields, devouring the crops. Of her on her knees, covered in dirt. In the throes of despair over the absence of her daughter. Her precious flowery goddess of the spring. Her hands sunk into the cold lifeless ground. Calling, crying out your name. Clutching in her hands the deadest flowers, their trumpets wilted and no longer golden but a sickly brown. The land will sing it's grievances when you're gone, you're sure. You dread the day when your worst fears will become truth. "You've cursed the land, cursed my mother. Her land will not flourish without me by her side-" He cuts you off, his hand coming up to hover over your cheek. Just as before, he doesn't touch, merely threatens the meeting of his cold skin to your warmth.

"I saved you."

His words make the little patience you had left snap. "You did not save me. You saved yourself. You can dress it up however you like with your fancy poetic words and your delusions of grandeur; but you chose to soothe your loneliness over my life." He looks at you differently now, like you've surprised him with your audacity to speak up over him. He studies you like you're a work of art-his-and like your clay has begun to crack after the kiln. "Yet you are here." He irks you still. "Have you forgotten you didn't give me a choice?" Hades is equally frustrated by your insistence on how he has ripped you from the ground like a flower being plucked, and he seems finally at the end of his rope. "Must you insist on fighting? I do not wish to exert my power over you, but I will if I must." You don't falter, infact, you step closer, your bare chest pressed up against his. It's enough to fluster him-though he doesn't let this show. He doubles down. "Perhaps I misjudged you. Some time alone would do you some good. Maybe then you'll see just how integral you are to the prosperity of the Underworld."

You've been down in the depths of your prison for longer than you can count. You spend your time counting cracks in the wall and the bugs that skitter acrosst the carved tile floor. Your only amenities to life are a crude toilet and bed of stone, with a single thin fabric stretched across it. You've tied the extra scarf from around your waist around your chest like a bandeau for a bit more warmth, though this land was too cold to ever truly warm your soul. Not like the fields of Olympus could. You've learned quickly just how different life is down here-how the Underworld never sleeps. Some poor soul is always wasting away their unlife doing some menial task for their king, who no doubt doesn't even know of their existence. Time doesn't move the same down here as it did up in Olympus. There is no sun to mark the beginnings and the ends of your days, only an eternal darkness which bathes the realm in it's sorrows. The pulsing of the green flame lanterns that line the outside of your cell are your only source of warmth and light, but even then they're incredibly faint, flickering and waning like a dying heartbeat. When you grow so incredibly bored as to count the rhythm of their flickerings is when you know a day isn't going to pass so quickly. At first you would cry endlessly each day and each night. You would scream until your throat was raw and aching. You screamt your mother's name and eventually your captor's until you were sore. But the walls swallowed up your screams whole. Not even an echo returned to you. You've learned the Underworld and it's inhabtiants are greedy like that, keeping whatever crumbs they're given. But eventually you grew tired of wallowing in despair, and you simply just got down on the chilly floor and sat against the wall, with your knees pulled up to your chest and your fingers tracing the engravings on the floor. It's cold. Much too cold and worse-it's lonely. You find yourself wishing your captor would visit you more often. Though if you concentrate, you swear you can feel your warmth seeping into the tile, making it just that little bit more tolerable. This startled you, and you pull your hand back as if the stone's burned you. But the warmth in the rock remains. And for a moment, you foolishly hope your powers have returned to you, and that you could use them to escape this hellhole-

All hope is lost when he finally comes down those dark stairs, the air itself chilling you back down to your bones. The air seems to change whenever Hades enters a room, everything straightens back into its place and all goes quiet. The dead would hold their breath, if they could still breathe. All the warmth is sucked out of you when his eyes land on your corraled form, curled up on the floor. You don't look up at him, not at first. No. You're much too cross with him to spare him even a glance. "You still look as radiant as ever," He says with that smooth tongue of his. "You understand why you're here now, yes?" 

"You're quieter." He notes with a hum, bending down to get down to eye-level with you. He grips the frigid steel bars, his knuckles turning almost white with how strong his grip is. "Would you expect me to sing for you?" He laughs without smiling at your words. The sound resounds deep in his chest, and the expression on his face- it nearly frightens you. He's so calm, even now. You think it's impossible for him to even break a sweat. He reaches his hand through the bars to touch you, and this time, he does. "I can feel it now. The Underworld's time of change draws ever nearer each day you spend here." His hand caresses and runs down your back, outlining your spine. You shiver from his chilling touch. "I only need you to accept that this is your home." You scoff, shifting to get up onto your knees then stand fully. You look down at him as his hand lingers over your ankle, his perfectly manicured nails painted black. You notice just how sharp they are, turning into a point at the end. They're long, longer than yours (though digging in the dirt will do that), but they're not too long. "I teach you how to wield this power. All you have to do.."

"...is give yourself to me."

An uncomfortable silence stretches between the two of you, as he looks up at you through the bars. A different kind of look is on his face, a look that says he hopes you'll say yes. "If I say yes," You begin. "...what will become of me?" Hades looks at you with a softer expression now, as he stands up onto his feet. He towers over you now, looking down at you with that pleasant, content look on his face. "It is like I said. You will become my queen, Persephone." His arm plunges back between the bars and his hand reaches for your face to take into his palm, his thumb brushing over your cheek. You can't lie, the sensation of another god's touch after being cooped up in a cell for far too long does feel quite nice. You lean into that touch, your eyes fluttering shut as your long lashes threaten to fly away. But they don't, of course not. Where he touches you, frost blooms on your skin, but you pay no mind. He's not any colder than the stone beneath your feet. "Hades, open the door." You say suddenly. The words that come out of your mouth surprise you as much as they surprise him. You've never been so straight forward before, at least, not until you've been pushed to your breaking point. Which seems to happen a lot around him. His thumb stills it's movements across your cheek and he slowly draws his hand back out from between the bars. "You wish to leave?" He asks. "You think I would let you escape so easily?" 

"No." You say quickly, adjusting the fabric wrapped around you to be a bit more comfortable. "I would like to take a walk. Around my castle." His gaze sharpens with an interest not present before. Like watching his opponent reach the wrong conclusion in moving their piece on the chess board. "You would not run? I will have your pretty legs broken if you lie." You press yourself up against the bars and hold your chin up high, acting as if you're looking down on him rather than up. "Where would I go, Hades? I'm trapped here regardless. I have no chariot." For the first time since you've met him, Hades seems pleased. The steel bars groan as he gets one of his shades to unlock it for him, the sound of it's pain like a beast's growls. The door swings open soon then, without any further touch. You step past him, barefoot, on the stone floor. Your bones make a gentle popping noise as you stretch, relieved to not be cramped up in there anymore. "Griffith," Hades says quietly as he watches you stretch. He brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear and gives you a small, pleased smile. "...that is my true name. Hades was the title thrust upon me." Oh.

"Well, thank you Griffith."

'Walk with me,' he says.

You don't know how it's happened, but as the two of you were walking, your hands ended up entwined together. You're not sure who slipped up, but what you do know is that neither of you have moved away from the other. Do you even want to? Since he's taken you around his palace, showed you all the rooms and the secret passageways, it's hard for you to be as upset with him as you were before. You hadn't even fathomed the concept of needing a secret passageway until he told you. You've learned a lot of things from him so far, mainly how cruel the gods can be. Not that he's exempt, but the way you look at it..he saved you. Who else would Zeus have offered you up to besides him? You shudder at the thought of having to marry anyone else. Especially someone like Apollo. "You know, I saved the best part of the castle for last. Come with me," He gives your hand a tug and you follow behind him promptly. "It's been a long while since anything has grown here." He says, as you approach the bottom of the staircase. He leads you down to the main floor of the castle then out a pair of doors into the courtyard. Past the courtyard, and in the distance, you can make out some architecture. Trellises and archways that follow a winding path, decorated by dead shrubs and wilted plants. Was this his attempt at a garden? The best that the god of the Underworld could do? You suppose not everyone is gifted with a green thumb, unlike you and your mother. "A garden," You gasp, letting go of his hand to go over to where the plants once blossomed. You hold the little dead blooms in your palms, whispering and talking to them as if your word alone could bring them back to life. "I'm afraid you have no dominion here. Not yet, at least," Griffith says from behind you, watching as his wife-to-be talks to dead plants like a crazy woman. "How can I help them?" You ask, looking up at him with wide eyes. He looks down at you with those vast swirling oceans, full of trickery-unbeknownst to you. "You need to eat of the delicacies of the Underworld." Being as innocent as you were, and so painfully compassionate to all forms of life, you stood back up and went over to him quick. "Then I shall." Griffith leads you by the end of your skirt, which he bundles up in his hand as he guides you to a short tree, nearly dead but refusing to give in. He grasps a bright red blossom and tugs it free from the branch, gripping it tightly in his hand. He grasps two sides of the round, slightly misshapen fruit's faces and tugs then twists, pulling it apart easily with his bare hands. A bit of blood red juice squirts out, and the droplets splash onto your face. You giggle, and Griffith can't help but laugh.

"Here."

He hands you one half of the fruit and wipes a bit of juice off your face with his now free hand. You look down at the fruit in your hand, admiring the deep, almost burgundy appearance of the seeds inside. They're kept bundled up in their cells and separated by lines of membrane that travel all throughout the fruit and separate each cluster of seeds. You've never seen such a gorgeous yield from a tree before, and Griffith can tell you're unsure of what to do. He reaches for one of the seeds from your half of the fruit and plucks it free from it's chamber, lifting it to your mouth. Now that it's on it's own, separated from it's brothers and sisters, it's rather small. "Is this enough?" You ask, but he's already popped the seed into your mouth. "Just to be sure, have a few more." He says, eyes tracking your movements as you rip free a handful of seeds from their cluster. They melt in your mouth when only just grazed by your teeth, leaving behind their crunchy seeds which you swallow. Griffith seems pleased as he watches you devour the fruit, and eats a few of the seeds from his own as he watches you.

The last seed dissolves into juice then into nothing on your tongue. It doesn't taste like how you'd expected it to-it's sweet with a little bite at the end. It tastes nothing like death. It even almost tastes a little warm, the bitter sweet taste blossoming across your tastebuds. It's flavor lingers in the back of your throat, moving down your body until it settles in the empty pit of your stomach. Just three seeds, you tell yourself. But you can't help but to eat more. You're just so hungry. How could you not be? You'd been starved for days, maybe even weeks, you're unsure. It just tastes so good-

"Slow down, my queen." His grasp on his half of the fruit tightens, crimson juice trickling down between his fingers and staining his pale skin a brilliant red. You drop the fruit to the ground, and in a moment of dizziness, you feel faint. Woozy. You don't know what it is you're feeling, this sudden rush of nausea overcoming you. You feel like you need to vomit to cleanse yourself of this tormenting feeling. It feels like everything around you is spinning as you fall to your knees on the cold hard ground. Your hands come up to grasp at your stomach, already untying the fabric from around your chest to free yourself. You can't find it in yourself to be ashamed of your body right now, not with how it anguishes you. The sweetness that lingered on your tongue and in your throat curdles into a nasty venom, turning heavy and making you feel even sicker. You can practically feel the seeds burrowing into your gut and taking root where they really shouldn't. Changing you from the inside out. You feel weak as Griffith bends down to hold your side, supporting you enough to keep you from falling flat onto your face. You feel like you're blooming, except the flowers opening their petals are all rotten and stinking of decay. His arm wraps around your stomach from behind and traces gentle shapes over the skin there, not minding the softness of your belly as you're hunched over. "Easy. There it is," He hums, grabbing your hair in a bundle and tugging it behind your hair to keep it out of your face. He isn't panicked at all, which makes you think he knew this would happen. That he even planned it. You wouldn't put it past him. You notice how the warmth pooling in your gut spreads to the rest of your body, and you grasp your own robes, trying to tear them off your scorching hot body. The cool touch of his skin on yours isn't even enough to keep you from overheating. The heat that floods through your veins is foreign, unwelcome, as it singes your blood vessels. It feels wrong to be so warm in this frozen realm.

"What-" You choke out, your throat dry and your voice hard to find as you try to speak. "...what did you do to me?" He takes your frail, overheated body into his arms and carries you over to a stone bench engraved with many faces and shapes, telling an ancient story you've never even heard. It's half buried beneath brambles he brushes away with his arm before he lays you down upon it, it's surface cooling your skin as soon as you touch it. "You-you poisoned me!" You gasp, hand coming up to brush hair out of your face, off your sticky forehead. "Now why would I ever do that? Least of all to my queen?" He looks down at you with a look of pity, as if you're much too dumb to comprehend just why he does what he does. "I've bound you to my world. Simple as that." The word lands like an arrow straight into your heart and poking through the other side. You shake your head. "But you said..just a few,"

"And you chose to eat them." He interrupts you, leaning his head down close to yours. His tone is neither accusing nor rude, as if he's simply stating fact. You suppose he's right...what a fool you are. His face and more importantly, his lips, are mere inches from your own. His beautiful, plump lips..lightly dusted pink like your own cheeks from how flustered you are. How warm. His eyes are half-lidded, those beautiful blues obscured by his hoods. His lips are slightly parted, and a little wet with his own saliva and the lovely red juice from the pomegranate. Maybe it's the overwhelming heat of your body boiling away all rational thought, but you act before you can even think; leaning your head up to press your own lips to his. His are cool to the touch and wet like you suspected them to be, and you can feel as his breath hitches. Like he wasn't expecting you to actually kiss him. His stunned expression lasts only briefly before he's cupping your face in his palm, angling you by your cheek so he can better kiss you. His eyes are closed now, like your own, as the two of you melt into each other. His kiss is rather sloppy, though. Like he's uncertain of what he should do. Truth be told, you're quite clueless too. You've never even been this close to another god before, let alone kissed them. But you can't help but remark how good this feels...how perfect his cold lips slot against your warm ones. Warmth..you'd almost forgotten just how hot you feel. A little, almost pathetic sound escapes you as you pull away from his lips to adjust your own clothing. You pull the fabric back up over your breasts, as something cold winds up around your leg.

You both look down and notice just what it is-the dead brambles from before have wrapped themselves around your ankle. And they're no longer so dead. Yes, they're even turning green-and when you bring your hand down to touch it, a bud sprouts forth from under your fingertips and it's blossom falls open to reveal a delicate white flower. It's white like the fluff of cotton, starkly pure white just like Griffith's hair. Hades-Griffith, is stunned by this revelation. Even though he knew you could bring life to his long-dead kingdom, he never expected it to be so soon. He assumed he would have to finely tune and help you exert your powers, but this unforeseen variable...it somewhat scared him. "It's beautiful," You gasp, clasping the flower in both hands as it unfurls over your joined palms. The flower trembles in your hands, petals shivering as if it doesn't even understand how it exists here. Like it knows it shouldn't be possible. Griffith pulls away from you and stands up straight, a puzzled expression on his face. You glance up at him, expecting him to be happy, to have some look of accomplishment on that gorgeous, ever confident face of his-but you only find confusion and bewilderment. A look of awe. "You shouldn't be able to do that. It's..not possible," He murmurs, more to himself than to you. But your keen ears pick up on even his quietest tone of voice. "I didn't mean to," You whisper back. You feel now as if you've done something wrong, and you can't help but feel guilty now. The vines are spreading even faster now, curling up over the bench and across your skin like crawling ivy. Their tiny buds bloom white then wither away in a matter of seconds, a vicious life cycle constantly at war with itself. The flower you held so tenderly in your own hands now withers away, curling in on itself and turning a dirty brown. You clutch the dead flower even tighter in your palms, the crispy edges turning to dust due to your vicelike grasp. "The plants are dying..but why? Why are they doing this?" You ask suddenly, blabbing without even making a conscious thought to. You look up at Griffith for guidance, for even just a single word of explanation. Though he doesn't seem to have all the answers, and looks down at you equally confused. Though he masks this before you can tell and plasters on a fake smile in understanding, like he has all the answers after all. The Underworld may soon flourish under your touch, you think. But only if you learned to control this power. Could you possibly be the one to bring life to this kingdom starved of color? Griffith gets down on a knee and gently touches the dead blossom of the flower you brought forth into life, and it seems to react to his touch by curling a thin vine around his finger. What happens next is what you least expect. His touch doesn't freeze the plant nor stunt it's growth, and unlike the plants above in Olympus, he doesn't kill them by his touch alone. No, it seems as if the plants were responding to him. "Isn't it wonderful?" You ask him, a big smile on your face as the thorned vines creep up around his wrist, blooming little white buds across his pale skin. "It is so," He says, a faint but real smile stretching his cheeks.

Your marriage happened the day you ate that handful of pomegranate seeds. From that moment onward you were bound to the Underworld and by extension him. This you knew and was solidified by the nausea that overtook you after you'd eaten them. But spending these weeks in the Underworld has built up your tolerance for it's foods and delicacies, and you no longer find yourself becoming as sick each night. Which was a good thing, you suppose. Though it equally frightened you. Would you be welcomed back to Olympus after consuming the fruit of the Underworld? Swallowing it's seed and letting it take root? You sure hoped you were still allowed past the gates. Though the longer you stay here, the more you wonder why you were in such a rush to leave. Griffith and his shades have been hospitable to you, after all. Giving you your own room to sleep in, proper clothes(not just bundles of fabric and skirts, not to say you didn't appreciate your old clothing, though) and plenty of space. In fact, although the two of you were wed now, you rarely ever saw Griffith. Only when he needed you for something, such as helping him try to replicate life in the gardens. This was his latest fixation, you've noticed. And knowing him, he would not stop until he's found a way to create life that actually lives down here. He's begun to come close, though nothing compares to how easily you can raise flower gardens and forests with just your hands in the Olympian soil. This lack of progress frustrates him easily, and he's begun to show you a side of himself he once kept hidden away. Far, far away. His temper has become ever apparent, though not once were you ever in the eye of his raging storm. No, he always kept interactions with you cordial and kind. He wouldn't want to scare away his bride, after all. Speaking of being a bride...

...lately you'd been longing for a picture perfect wedding of your own.

Is that not the least he could do for you? You feel like you're owed it, with how abruptly he just decided to take you and claim you as his wife. You'd always longed and yearned for a picturesque wedding, dressed all in white silks adorned with lace and flower details. How much fun you would have partaking in the festivities-helping yourself to some wine, engaging in song and dance, and of course just being able to spend time with your fellow gods. Your mother had her own wedding, and so did Zeus. So why couldn't you have yours? After many long moments of pondering, marinating in the idea, you decided it was time to bring it up to Griffith. It's not like money is any issue, he has plenty of gold to spare. And the two of you have an entire eternity to plan for the wedding and make it happen. So why would he ever say no?

You've been down here long enough to learn his routine, so you knew it'd be best to ask him once he's done with his duties for the day. You've put on your best dress, the deep almost bloody red one he picked out for you. Rubbed some perfume oil into your wrists and neck, and rouged your lips perfectly. Accentuated the cupid's bow like a little heart sitting atop your lips. How could he ever refuse you after you'd taken the time to doll up for him? He wasn't one to care about looks, but his wife making an effort to look good just to please him would surely sway his cold heart, wouldn't it? He wouldn't be upset at you for asking for such a silly thing as a wedding, would he? Oh no. Maybe it was a bad idea to even think of this in the first place. But your feet were already moving and your mind was made up that you were going to ask him for this. You never asked for much. You were always quiet, complacent, and cooperated with his every whim of will. Before you can think for much longer your feet have already brought you to the double doors leading into his bedroom. Perhaps when the two of you are publically wed, you'll share a bed together. Like how normal couples do. After a moment of knocking, rapping gently at his door (you were incapable of causing a disturbance) do you find it open as he draws both doors wide open. "Yes?" He looks you up and down, his expression rather flat. He doesn't look pleased, not because of you but because of his general disposition lately. Prone to anger and being upset. So you do your best to please him, with your hands clasped together in front of you and your eyes all big and doe-like, a bit watery too. Shiny. "Good evening, my husband. I just wanted to talk to you about something." Griffith steps to the side and gestures for you to come in with a wave of his hand. When you do so, your feet find purchase on the fur rug he's laid out on his stone floor, heels digging into the hide a little as he closes the doors behind you. He reaches for your hand and guides you over to the bed, letting you rest upon it as he stands in front of you, waiting for you to speak. "I've just been thinking, you know..we haven't had a proper wedding. I know I am technically your wife..but I just don't feel like it because we've had no ceremony. We don't even exchange affections." Griffith pinches the bone of his brow and closes his eyes, seemingly deep in thought. "I see," He starts, trailing off before finding his words again. "That's what this is about. You don't feel loved." He says, putting words in your mouth. You're about to open yours to speak up in opposition, but he shushes you with his hand. He seems like he's been preparing for this moment. "No need to speak, I know I've done wrong. I anticipated you would say something like this sooner or later."

He turns away from you then and begins to pace the length of his chamber, the doors to the balcony open with cold air blowing the curtains. "If I were to crown you openly," He begins, gathering his own thoughts as he speaks. "Olympus would not see it as a celebration." Right. You bite your lip, peeling back dry skin. A nervous habit. "They would call it as it is."

"A declaration of war." He corrects you.

He stops pacing and turns to face you, his expression complex and unreadable. "Your mother would tear up the entire Underworld looking for you. I cannot let that happen." You nervously swallow. You already knew that. Your connection to Olympus, though broken, was not entirely severed. You could still feel and hear in your ears the pain and the wailing screams of all the flowers and the fauna. Like a second, pounding pulse. "Please just consider it. Perhaps you might have better luck in bringing life to the Underworld if we were properly wed-" He interrupts you, shaking his head in a dismissive back and forth. "You are my bride." This you know already, but you don't argue. "But if it were official, the ground here may better speak to me." He stares you down with those intense blue eyes, clearly not pleased with how you're talking back to him. As if he could not fathom ever being wrong. He runs his hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his face. "If I give you this.." He tilts his head back and ruffles up his pure white mane. "It will bind more than just you to the Underworld. You will be bound to me. Forever." 

You swallow that great big lump that keeps creeping back up your throat. Not because you're afraid, but because you know to do this would be irreversible. You would belong to him and his world, just as he's said-forever. There's no one left to hold your hand through this decision. You've grown even in just the time you've been down here. You're no longer as naïve as you once were. 

Forever...

It doesn't frighten you as much as it once would have. Eternity always promised you it's freedom. Freedom that belonged to you eternally. Olympus had promised you that much-with endless fields of tall grass and high grain that reached the very blue skies. There was a time you were frightened by the idea of being owned. But now it seemed like a mercy. So you rise up from his bed, slowly on bare feet. You toss your hair over your shoulder and rub your lips together, color blending together in a pleasant, bloody rouge. His gaze fixates on the sight. "You speak as if I am not already bound." His pale blue eyes are on you even now. "You said it yourself, when I ate those three seeds. Was my nausea not proof?" His eyes flicker with brief annoyance from you explaining such a known fact to him, as if he were an unknowing child. "You ate the fruit of your own accord. You wear the crown-my crown-in every way but name." He goes over to you and towers over your form, tilting your chin up with a single fingertip. "Then I shall wear the crown, if you would give it to me. I will be your queen in name." Then, unexpectedly, he leans in and presses his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, his eyes fluttering shut as he kisses you. You return it eagerly, standing up on the tips of your toes to better reach him. He's quite tall, after all. Taller than you. The god of the Underworld and of endings looks down at you then when he finally pulls away, not as prey or the key to unlocking his dormant dream, but as something he feared to acknowledge. An equal.

"We are to be wed this Sunday." 

The wedding.

Preparations took only a few days due to hoe busy the entire Underworld has been, focusing solely on your wedding and dropping all other work. The poor trapped souls were all working extra hard making decorations and spreading word, while the shades spent all their free time cleaning the castle gardens and preparing the great marital feast. To say that your union was a big deal would be a sore understatement. Talk of your wedding ceremony was the only talk in the Underworld. Your first maid helped you pick a dress and had it tailored exactly to your taste. It was long and white (of course), with a longer train and lace detailing. Flower motifs littered the fabric and across the built in corset (you had to describe in mere words the beauty of such blossoms, and the dressmaker encapsulated it perfectly), and the veil was composed of roses. Not real ones, of course. Only an imitation as far as fabric could stretch. No life could be sustained down here, not even as a gift for your wedding. But that would all change as soon as you're wed, you're sure. You would give to him your purity, and in sharing that sacred part of you you're certain he would be embraced by your great gift to create life. You were busy fixing your hair, putting it up and leaving some strands down to frame your face. Or did you prefer to leave it all down? You couldn't decide. There wasn't much time left for indecisiveness. After all, it was your wedding day now. The day has crept up upon you sooner than you could ever anticipate it, like a silent assassin. Your maid fluffed up your hair, deciding it much more beautiful as it cascaded down your shoulders like a waterfall. She was sticking pins with engraved silver roses into your hair, winding the sticks around your locks so they would stay. You were powdering your face and applying a bit of blush so you didn't look quite so dead. But not too much. You traced your lips then filled in the plumpest parts with your favorite shade, smacking them together then puckering up to get a better look. "You look so beautiful, my queen," Your maid tells you. Though it vain of you to think so, you did think she was right. You'd never felt so beautiful as you did in this moment, on the day of your wedding. You hadn't seen your soon-to-be husband all day, assuming he was busy with preparations and getting ready himself. You had no idea what he was going to wear or what he was going to do with his own hair, but you were certain he would look just as beautiful as you this day. You would be the perfect couple.

The palace bells begin to toll, telling you of the time and that ceremony is to start soon. They are not made of bronze, gold, or even silver-something much more primitive and befitting of the Underworld. Bones struck together by the old hands of a shade slaving away to do just that one job eternally, hollow notes resounding through the entire Underworld (including it's deepest valleys and highest mountains beyond the city); like a slow and pounding heartbeat. Each toll vibrates like a death knell through the floor beneath your feet tucked into a pair of white heels. You feel it in your gut, in the way it pounds in your own heart to it's eerie rhythm. The entire Underworld knows it's such a joyous day, the day in which finally, it's resounding ruler finally fulfills his dreams. Your maid stills behind you as she finishes curling your hair, the pins all in place leaving your head like a bouquet of beautiful roses. You could never pick just one flower to be your favorite-but they were one that you cherished. "You're ready, Your Highness. Everyone is ready to see you." She murmurs reverently. You rise from your vanity chair and take one last glance at yourself in it's mirror, turning from side to side to analyze yourself from all angles then giving a little spin. You couldn't help but be as giddy as a child. It's your wedding day. Yours. Finally, you could live out your own dreams. To be loved and cherished by another, to be put above all else. The dress is heavier than you expected as you stand on slightly shaky feet, unused to such harsh footwear. You'd only ever worn sandals or gone barefoot, so it was strange to be above the ground by so much. The train was spread out across the dark floor like a rug behind you. Your maid lifts your train and carries it for you as you step towards the double doors leading out of your chamber. You feel more connected to this place than you ever had before, feeling as if the green flame lanterns lining the walls were flickering towards you, responding to your presence. Like life here was beginning to recognize it's queen. The doors to the courtyard open when you finally reach the end of the hall. And the trek to the gardens is a bit tedious, but your maid is there to keep your dress from touching the ground and getting dirty. And as soon as you arrive, you find the garden unrecognizable from when you'd last seen it. What was once stone and dead trelliswork crawls with something new, not alive in the way Olympian gardens flourish, but not quite traditionally dead either. Pale vines coil around pillars of metal, not flowering but not immediately turning to dust either. It's beautiful in a way only the undead can be. Colorful ribbons are tied around their stalks, of all various shades. As if Griffith didn't know which was your favorite color, so he picked them all. A nice sentiment, you think. The dead line the aisle as you walk it, your maid letting go of your dress and it's train to join them in queue. The shades stand shoulder to shoulder, their incomplete shadowy forms flickering like candlelight. Some openly weep, others stare at you in something like worship. You can feel their hunger and their longing for life, but push that to the side to focus on your own feelings. It's your day, after all. Finally as you walk down the aisle, you see him.

At the farthest end standing is your husband. He's unarmored, dorning black silks wrapped around his body and embroidered with silver and red. Hanging from his neck is a red jewel, glinting in the dark light of the Underworld. His hair is pulled back in a long ponytail that cascades down his open back, bound loosely at his nape. His robes, the dark embodiment of shadow itself is a stark contrast to your white dress and open in the back, showing off his back muscles. But you're not trying to openly ogle your future husband in front of all the watching shades. He's holding something in his hand that you can only make out when you get closer as a dead and dried stick, flaking and black like charcoal. When his eyes meet yours, the world around you narrows down and becomes so small. As if it's only the two of you in the entire Underworld. You feel it then-not just his desire for you, but his certainty in it all. The absolute and overwhelming belief that this moment belongs to just the two of you. The certainty of him to believe that this union would bring his kingdom the prosperity he's only previously dreamt of possible. The door to it that your arrival has opened. That you've always been walking towards him, bolting towards him like destiny even when you were just a wee tot running through your mother's fields. He doesn't smile, only holds out his hand not grasping the stick. You walk towards him a bit faster now, each step feeling like it's sending a ripple through the ground as if it was water beneath your feet. Flowers-real flowers-bloom beneath the carpet and under your feet only briefly as you approach him. But they die just as fast as they come to life. Each petal is a silent prayer said to the gods above in Olympus, a plea thst this union will work even as they rot away into the dirt of the Underworld. Gasps work their way through the gathered crowd as the flowers peek out from under the carpet, as the even the dead seem startled. But their shock is quickly replaced by familiarity as soon as the flowers have died. Griffith's fingers close around yours once you set your hand in his palm. His skin is cold but his grip is steady and anchoring as he pulls you closer, wrapping his other arm around your waist as he presses you up against his chest.

"You look.." His voice drops and becomes quiet, as his words were meant only for you. "Exactly as I have dreamed." 

You stand before him as his bride as the Underworld seems to hold it's breath in preparation for your spoken vows. A shade steps forward from the crowd to officiate and stands behind the altar, voice trembling as ancient vows are spoken. Vows of balance, exchange, union and of the crown. Of things rotting and of blooming. But you only hear them distantly. What you feel most clearly is the rhythmic brushing of Griffith's thumb over your knuckles. Reverent and a hint possessive. When it is his turn to speak his own vows, he glances at you almost for clarification before speaking. But he speaks before you can give it. "I claim Persephone, the Goddess of Spring." He doesn't look at the officiant as he does so, no-he stares directly into your swirling eyes. Your pools of color. "Not as spoil nor prize, nor offering." He pauses. "But as my queen of the Underworld, to rule it alongside me." His words echo in the garden, and no one else dare speak a word before he finish his. "I bind myself to her life, eternally, as she is bound to my own. When she speak my realm shall answer, where she go my world may welcome her. Where she blooms, so shall I. And the life she brings may endure. For this, I do." His thumb pauses it's rubbing and his fingers tighten their grip around yours. "If I shall fall, she will be my salvation."

"Do you accept this crown," The officiant's voice intones. "...and all that kneels beneath it?" The officiant turns to you once he's finished speaking, as if to silently say,

Your turn. And the Underworld waits with bated breath to hear your words.

To hear you say...

"I do." 

Griffith watches you with an intensity that borders upon devotion, the way he looks at you as if he's obsessed. Something dark in his eyes as a grin spreads across his face. Of course you said 'I do'. He knew you would. He makes you feel dangerously wanted. And you look at him to recognize that very fact. He takes the crown of thorns from the bearer that's brought it up the aisle upon a soft pillow, and delicately places it atop your head. It matches the one sitting upon his own cranium, though you notice it's significantly less sharp. Griffith kneels before you then, not as a performing act for the audience but out of his own desire. He lowers himself as though this is the only position that makes sense, as he takes your palm and drags the dead stick over your outstretched palm. The bearer of the crown then produces a small knife, which Griffith takes in his free hand. He searches over your skin with the blade so delicately, even as he's looking for the perfect place to cut. He presses the tip into the middle of your palm and traces along one of the lines that stretches across it, then digs in. The pain is brief as he makes the shallow cut, and he tries his best not to hurt you greatly. You wince and bite your lip to hold in a small whimper, and he's already taking the knife to his own hand before you can react. He digs deep into his own skin and makes a line on his skin, squeezing his palm to force some blood out as he sets his hand in yours, the branch between your skins so they can't meet, only exchange lifeblood. "My queen," He murmurs, as if hurting his bride on their wedding day is such a normal thing. Your shared blood causes the stick to sprout and at the end finally blossom, turning from a dark black to a sickly yellow then finally become green. At the end a bud sprouts, then opens up into the most beautiful flower. A blood red rose, sanctifying your eternal union. You can't help but bend down and kiss him, unable to resist the urge to any longer. He meets your lips and kisses you with equal fervor, then pulls back to finish his sentence. 

"Welcome home."

The entire Underworld now seems to bow before it's queen, not by force or a command, but by instinct. As if the crown upon your head bestowed a law that is older than itself. Griffith rises slowly from upon his knee then stands before you with a gentle expression on his face, knowing now that he's won. He's still holding your hand, and when he turns to face the dead that are gathered and bowed in reverence, he smiles. His palm settles at the small of your back (a bit possessively, yes) but it's grounding. As if a man as strong as him is even afraid that if he lets go you might be snatched up and taken back to Olympus, leaving him alone in the rot he's dwelled in for centuries, despite being the rightful queen of the Underworld and belonging to it now. You hold the blossomed rose in your palm now, and it doesn't dissolve into nothing nor does it wilt. It stays vibrantly red and beautiful, the exact shade of your combined blood. The perfect symbol of your union. "Hear me now, my subjects," His voice carries without much effort. "This is your Persephone. My queen." He doesn't call you his wife, nor does he need to. That much is implied. The word queen simply hits harder and seems to strike a chord in the hearts of the crowd, as they cheer once you cast the rose into the gathering for one of them to catch it. "There will be many more to come," You say with a smile.

The banquet seemed to last for centuries before the two of you had ample opportunity to excuse yourselves from it.

Not that there was anything wrong with the food, no, there was plenty and it was delicious. Nor was there anything wrong with the wine as it flowed dark and sweet, warming your body as you swallowed it from your ornate goblet. You drank and ate without wretching, without the sickness you experienced before because now your body was accustomed to the Underworld's delicacies. Griffith noticed your every move as you dined, much like he noticed everything. He watches, this you know already. When you laughed that soft laugh at something a servant said he watched your throat move as you made the sound. When you shift in your seat, restless beneath the heavy crown. His hand settles over yours as he guides you down the hall, away from the festivities to return to his bedroom. He leads you through corridors you've walked before, but which now feel open for you. The flames of the lanterns decorating the hall seem to bow as the two of you walk by. His room is no longer merely his, nor is yours your own. The two of you are to share his. His own is rather austere as he leads you through the doors and into it, the light of the Underworld's own moon bathing the bedroom in a blue glow. It's rather pleasant as you go over to stare out the balcony at the sky, speckled with bright white stars like holes in a dark sky. He chuckles at your childlike wonder as you hurry to look up at something so simple as the stars in the sky. He stands behind you and lifts your crown from your head (when he removes it, he does so with ceremony), placing it upon his nightstand. He grasps your hip from behind with one hand, his head slotted in the crook of your neck as he breathes down upon it. You suppose you've ought to sanctify your marriage-though you're painfully unaware of just what that entails. He seems to be more knowledgeable, as he grasps your beautiful dress and tugs upon it. He's almost hungry, greedy as he does so. Your eyes are no longer so fixated on the stars as you turn your head and look down at his hair as he buries his face in your neck. He presses a tender kiss to the skin there then does something strange-he locks his lips around a bunch of your skin and sucks on it. A little bit painful as he does so harshly, popping your blood vessels and leaving a blossoming purple mark. "Beautiful," He says, when he pulls his head back to gaze at it. His hands tremble a little as he grasps the ties at the back of your dress, unlacing the delicate fabric slowly. You feel the momentary fracture in his composure and for a moment second guess yourself, wondering if such a thing is even possible. You don't miss it as his cold hands run down your spine and guide the sleeves of your dress down your shoulders and to pool at your elbows. "You'll have to guide me," You tell him, as you finally slip out of them. He guides your hands to the front of your top and helps you tug it down, revealing your supple breasts cupped in a white lace bra (the same as your wedding gown) to him. You feel like nothing more than an object as he assesses your body, though he's quick to comfort you with his words once he senses your unease. "You are not an offering. Not tonight, not ever. This body..it is my salvation. My dream brought life." His words cause a different kind of flutter in your tummy, much lower in your body as heat begins pooling in your very core. You've never felt this way before. He's shown you lots of different sensations and feelings since you've known him.

He guides you over to his bed and you sit down on it, causing the mattress to bounce a little when you settle down upon it. He gets down on his knees and grasps your feet, carefully unstrapping your heels and guiding them off your aching feet. You wonder why someone would ever wear something so uncomfortable on any other day than their wedding. His fingers trace over the top of your foot then up your ankles and calves before working back down to your toes, which he begins to rub. He then soothes your aching soles with his fingers as he works them into your tired flesh, taking great care of his beautiful wife. He then repeats the actions with your other foot until you're left in only your tights, and he presses a kiss to each of your ankles. He then looks up at you, his cheek pressed against your shin. "May I remove your dress?" He asks quietly, so tenderly and with much more care than he's ever shown you before. Like he knows you're a delicate little thing. You give him a small nod, and stand up so he can have an easier time removing it. His hands make quick work of your dress bunched around your waist, tugging it down your legs and guiding it down to the ground where it pools at your feet like shed petals. The air is cold where it tickles your bare skin now so warm, every touch from him causing your nerve endings to explode with sensation. He feels like he's everywhere, surrounding you with his body and by extension his touch. Where his fingers brush your arms, hot to the touch, his own is cold. Like frost blossoming over your skin wherever his hands go. You decide to kiss him first.

It's not impulsive nor is it desperate, it's simply a cry for something much more tender. He gives it to you in the way he gently cups your face and embraces you, pushing you back onto the bed. You land with an 'oomph', the sound coming out against his lips and making him smile between kisses. He pulls back and looks down at you like you're a feast. Not in an overly hungry way, but just with desire. Overwhelming love. A pure kind of unquenchable thirst for you. He stands between your legs as they rest around his own, thighs lightly squeezing his hips. His hands come down to cage you in with his body as he leans over you, face and lips inches away from your own. You lean up to press your lips together again, but before you can meet he pulls back to look down at your body, admiring the sight of you only in your bra and panties. Almost. His hands come to grasp your tights and he rolls them down your legs, pulling them off your feet and tossing them aside. 'Much better', he thinks. His next movements are careful as his hands glide up your sides, then he rests one atop each of your breasts. Your breath hitches when he touches them, the sensation unfamiliar as he moves his palms around and begins to knead them like dough. Not rough, just playful. His fingers slip beneath your bra straps and he tugs them down, pulling your bra down to finally bare your breasts to him. And when his eyes set upon them, what a sight to see. It's like a delicacy greater than any he's ever known, and he can only stare stunned for a brief period before his head is diving down to give them a taste. His lips close around the bud of your right breast and he lightly suckles, his tongue swirling around your nipple. You gasp at the sensation, the wetness and just how much it makes you wet in turn. Slick pools between your thighs as he switches his focus to your opposite breast, giving the other nipple the same attention he did the right one. It's strange, the sensation and the way he's making your body feel. The things he's doing to you and the way you're responding. You let out a little sound of disappointment when he pulls his head back and wipes a string of spit that connects his mouth to your nipple away with his hand. He goes back to gently massaging your boobs, and you look down once you feel something hard pressing against your thigh.

You realize the stiffness pressed up against you belongs to him, and he not so subtly grinds against the plush flesh of your thigh. His hard dick strains against the fabric of his robe, and curious you reaches down to graze your fingertips against it. His breath hitches and he catches your hand, looking down at you a bit confused. "What are you doing?" He asks, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. You look apologetic then as you speak. "I was just curious," You say. He looks down at you sympathetically and releases your hand, guiding your palm to press against his bulge. "Then feel," He says, forcing your hand as he rubs your palm over the ever growing hardness. It's unlike anything you've ever felt before, and unlike anything you've ever seen as he lifts his robes and tugs down his loincloth, revealing himself to you. His manhood. No, his very claim to godhood. His dick is as pale as his skin if not paler, with a rosy pink tip and visible veins running through his skin. It even curves a bit upwards. And oh, does it look big. Intimidating. A bit scary, even. He guides your hand and closes your fingers around the base of his shaft, moving your hand back and forth along his great pole. Your thumb rubs over his veins, looking quizzically at it as you do the motions. It seems to bring him much pleasure, as his eyes are shut and his lips are parted. Though you're inexperienced, it doesn't seem like he cares much at all. Any pleasure is good pleasure, as he bites his lip. "Go faster." He says, and releases your hand to let you perform on your own. You're a bit scared to do so, but pick up the pace, adding in the occasional swipe of your thumb over his tip, making him leak precum onto your hand. You look curiously and lift your head up from resting on the bed to sit up instead of lay down. You feel like you should be doing more than just idly stroking him, so you lean in close and place a hesitant kiss to the head of his cock.

He seems to like that very much, as it sends a shiver through his body. He looks down at you and fists his hand into your hair, a silver hairpin falling out and onto the bed. But both of you are too busy to care or even notice. He guides your face closer to his dick, and pushes himself against your cheek. You tentatively give the side of his shaft a lick, then lick up from the base to the very head. "Does it feel good?" You ask him, and he nods. "Wrap your lips around the head..then suck it." Griffith pushes the head of his cock against your lips and you open your mouth to take it into your wet cavern, not thinking about your teeth. They graze against him and he winces, then taps your cheek with his thumb. You suddenly realize and pull your mouth off of him, then do your best to cover your teeth with your lips and tongue. You then take him back into your mouth, and he finds it much more pleasureable this time around. He thrusts himself in and out of your mouth slowly at first, then picks up the pace once you're accustomed to the feeling of having him inside your mouth. He crams himself down your gullet, briefly making you gag, but you regain your composure and ease your reflexes to keep sucking him, trying to bring him as much pleasure as you possibly can. That's your job as his wife, is it not? So you focus the best you can to please him. You make a suction with your lips, and start to take him even deeper, his tip teasing the entrance to your throat without making you gag. His expression is that of pure, filthy lust as his eyes close and he bites his lip. He grunts and thrusts into your mouth a few more times before pushing deeper into your mouth, as deep as he possibly can, then ejaculates down your throat. The taste is unlike anything you'd ever eaten before, quite salty and with a tang. But you swallow it down, not knowing what else to do, then look up at him, waiting for him to pull out of your mouth. Once he's certain you've swallowed all of his cum does he pull out, his cock slapping against your cheek and wiping a bit of cum across your skin. "Good girl," He says, clearly very pleased. But he's not quite satisfied. No, with his new wife he must go all the way to consecrate their marriage. While you're sat up he helps you take your bra off, lifting your arms up and unclasping it so it just falls down into your lap. He picks it up and tosses it aside into a pile with your wedding dress and his robe.

It's his turn to bring you pleasure, as he guides you back onto your back on his bed. "Now just relax." Griffith gives you a reassuring smile and places his hands on each of your knees, guiding your legs apart so he can slot himself between them. His cock, still so hard but not quite aching anymore is pressed up against your wet panties, which are, by now, soaked through. You can't help but try to close your legs, a bit embarassed of your own body. But he doesn't let you close them, instead keeping them wide open with his own body for easier access. "Don't be shy." He smiles, with two fingers he rubs over your folds through your panties. You can't help but involuntarily moan, already feeling so much pleasure from just the littlest touch. He's left you unattended for so long, it's only to be expected. You have your own needs, after all. But to be selfish is just in his own nature. He pulls your panties aside and gazes at your drooling core, oozing sweet ambrosia. So this is the true fruit of the gods, he thinks. No wonder he's been denied it so long by them. Until this very moment, his thirst has been unquenchable. Like a man parched, now he's drowning in it. He rubs his thumb into your clit in circles, making your toes curl as he does so. This brings a little grin to his face and he teases your undoubtedly tight entrance with a single finger, his middle one. He circles your hole with his fingertip before gathering up enough slick to provide him an easy entrance, and he slides his middle finger in with relative ease due to just how wet you are. He pushes his finger in and pulls it out, your juices soaking him up to his knuckle as he starts to finger you slowly. He works you loose enough to slide in a second finger, preparing you to take his length. He curls both fingers inside you and presses against that gummy spot deep inside your canal, making stars shoot across your eyelids. "Oh, Griffith!" You gasp, never feeling something so pleasureable before in your entire life. It was so foreign, but not unwelcome. Not at all. He grins and starts to finger you faster and harder, pushing his fist against your folds as he pounds you with his hand. "That's it, my queen. Just a little more for me, then you'll get to feel so good. I promise." He tells you sweetly, promising pleasure like you'd never felt before. You don't know if anything can beat how you're already feeling just from having his fingers inside you, and wondering just makes you even more desperate to feel. You don't want to beg, but the way he teases you with two fingers makes you a little frustrated. You want him to pick up the pace, but instead, he adds another finger into your wet hole. This blows your mind, literally, and you come undone around his three fingers. Your clenching pussy spasms around him, bringing a grin to his face as you endure your first ever orgasm, which practically melts your mind. He pulls his fingers free of your clinging warm flesh, bringing his hand up to his lips to taste your sweet essence. Ah, ambrosia-just as he's dreamt it would taste.

Griffith moves over top of you, and reaches down to take himself into his hand. He watches you as you watch him curiously, and he laughs. "Did you think we were done?" He asks, as he strokes himself to full hardness. You don't answer, but the look in your eyes says a thousand words as you squirm beneath him when he rubs his cock between your wet folds. He grinds between them for a few moments, getting himself slicked up with your sweet juices to make penetration easier. He's longed for this moment for longer than he can even remember-but companionship had always eluded him. He wasn't allowed to love, even if he was, what god would ever choose to love him? Over Zeus, Poseidon? No god. But not anymore. Not after you. And the way you look at him..like you truly love him and not just because he kidnapped you and forced you to do so-but out of a place of genuine affection. That makes his heart race. You're even willing to bend to his will to make his dream happen. Hell, you even share it. You're cute, caring, easy to manipulate, sweet..what more could he ask for in such a partner? Even now you look up at him with reverence, just waiting for him to push his filthy cock inside your innocent cunt. That sweet, naïve look on your face says it all. Says you want him. Want him to ruin you, defile you, make you impure. Make you the real queen of the Underworld. And for this, he would oblige.

He's so hard even as he pushes his tip against your folds, rubbing his head into them. You wrap your thighs around his waist and hold onto him tight, as he tries to push himself into your cunt. He searches frantically for purchase but has some trouble doing so, even with how much he's slicked up his shaft with your sweetness. He's laser focused on your pussy when he finally, finally, pushes himself inside. You gasp when you feel your hymen tear, as he deflowers you finally. A dribble of blood drips down your folds, though neither of you seem to notice or pay it any mind. Griffith grunts when he finally pushes in all the way and bottoms out inside you, his cock seated all the way inside your pussy. "How does it feel?" He asks you, looking down at you sincerely and making sure you're alright. He's just taken your virginity, after all. Not like he was a brute in doing so-but it's gentlemanly to make sure his wife is alright. "I'm fine," You say, gripping the sheets tight as they ball up in your fists. There's a brief amount of pain when he pulls himself out and then pushes back in, his balls slapping gently against your ass when he slides in all the way. It feels strange at first, though you quickly grow accustomed to the feeling when he begins to thrust in and out of you. Slowly at first, though it doesn't take him long to work up a steady pace that both of you find pleasureable. He reaches up to undo his ponytail as he thrusts shallowly into you, busier undoing it than providing you pleasure. You frown and push against him, trying to take him even deeper as he lets his hair down. He grins at this and in retaliation he leans down and snaps his hips forward rather harshly, thrusting himself deep into your wet cunt. You gasp and reach up to grab at his body, at any part of him your can reach. Your hands find purchase gripping his back tight and guiding him down ontop of you as he keeps up his pace, in and out of you. You stare deep into his eyes as he searches your deepest depths with his probing cock. You long to kiss him once more, but he does so before you can. He presses his lips to yours and punctuates with a rough thrust, making you gasp and your mouth drop open agape. This gives him an ample opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, and it probes inside your mouth and fights your own for dominance. Though obviously, he quite easily wins the battle. It's like magic the way the head of his cock kisses your insides and makes out with your cervix, the sensation giving you an uncomfortable sort of pleasure, not unlike the first time he thrust into you. His sweaty bangs tickle your face as you're both covered in a sheen of sticky fluid, exerting so much energy just to feel each other from the inside out. Your tongue curls around his and he untangles the two then pulls back, panting as his thrusts begin to grow uneven and faster paced as he chases his own high and seems to momentarily forget about yours. His hair drapes over your face and encapsulates you in a white curtain as he leans over you, and he finally hits that spot inside you that once again makes you see stars.

"Right there," You tell him, and Griffith is quick to oblige. He grabs your right thigh and lifts your leg, angling you so he can better thrust right against that spot. "Right here?" He asks, grunting when he hits it again with a brutal smack against your thighs. "Yes!" You gasp out, eyes squeezing shut as colors burst across your eyelids. He's making you feel so good, the best you've ever felt, you doubt anything could ever come close to this divine feeling-

He laughs as he watches your face contort in pleasure. Though he's not far behind you in his own climax, as he pulls out and then thrusts back inside roughly, his balls clapping against your ass. You're dripping down his shaft and creaming upon it, a white ring forming around his base as he just keeps on going. You dig your nails into his back when he reaches down and finds your tender bud and begins to play with it, twisting it and twirling it around with two fingers. He smirks when he sees just how close you are and just how much his ministrations are affecting you, and with one final push, he thrusts all the way inside you and holds himself there as he cums. You reach your own peak when he seats himself inside your warm clinging flesh, his warmth flooding your insides and making it's home splattered against the walls of your womb. His back is raked with fresh shallow red lines, some dripping blood down his back as he collapses atop you. But he doesn't mind the sting, and instead pushes you up the bed, his cock slipping free from your pussy. He lays down beside you in your now shared bed, and you lie tangled together as his cum drips down between your thighs. You can't find it in you to care, with his white hair spread across your chest the color of spilled moonlight. Pure white like the stars in the night sky. His head rests just below your heart, as he listens to it beat. 

"I did not expect this," He admits, his voice lower. Honest. 

"What?" You murmur.

"To feel less..alone." You curl your fingers into his hair and gently play with the loose strands. And for the first time since you arrived in his realm, you don't feel lesser than.

You feel like, finally, you're his equal.