A/N: This is clearly an interpretation of the much used Persephone/Hades mythology and is heavily inspired by Tara Mae Mulroy's gorgeous poem, Persephone Writers to her Mother. The title is also very much inspired by a line from that poem. Another source of inspiration is this Greek mythology book I once read during grade school that had such a vivid description of Hades. The wealth and the artificial beauty has clearly stayed with me through all these years even if I've forgotten the name of the book.
Disclaimer: This is a bit tricky since I don't quite mention names but obviously you all know who I really had in mind in terms of the original characters I drew from, and the ones I imagined within this fandom.
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Darkness is the first thing she learns about her new home. The moon, fashioned from diamonds bigger than a mortal man's fist, casts an artificial light from where it is suspended just outside her window. Between the shadows are blue fields, blue rivers, blue valleys and blue mountains as far as her eyes can see.
She wonders if he left her there to take comfort in the familiar dips and swells that parallel her mother's domain.
Still, it is much too dark for someone like her, a goddess born in the light. Escorted (she will always admit to this) and now hidden beneath layers of earth in his palace, in his room, the warm glow of her skin and hair looks just as unnatural as the moon's.
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When he sees her again, she is dressed in a glittering robe with a crown of rubies and gold weighing down her hair. They stand apart from each other, quiet and nervous, and so very unlike their first meeting. Her mind flashes back to way they shuddered against each other's mouths as crushed flowers and grass stained her dress, and the damp soil pressed against her back.
She sees the way his eyes (blues that give way to silver and green, shifting like the waves that hide her sisters and brothers who live beneath the surf) land on the tray beside the bed. The cup of nectar and the bowl of ambrosia are untouched, but she had taken to rearranging the pomegranates, and it is her hands that save them from rotting.
"Would you like to see the gardens?" His voice is a rumble that fills the cavernous room, fitting in the corners that escape the cool shine of the moon.
"Yes." She doesn't hesitate and follows him through the halls. It is only when they are through the garden gates that she wonders why she didn't say no.
They step on grass made of silver while he points out golden trees with sapphires and diamonds for fruits. She picks up one of the fallen gems and smaller diamonds spill out into her palm. He passes a hand above hers, and the diamonds piece together in mid-air to form a new crown. She accepts the gift and holds it closer to her chest when the corners of his mouth turn upwards.
The garden is undeniably beautiful though it lacks the familiar feel of wet earth and the heady sweetness of overripe fruits and blooming flora, inorganic and echoing the death that calls this place home. They are looking at flowers made of clustered precious stones, colourful and heavy enough to bend their metal stems, when she makes another delayed realisation: This is a replica of the meadow where they met.
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She keeps track of time by the number of crowns she has on the bedside table. Quiet servants come to dress her in fine robes before placing the newest crown over her head, check on the contents of the tray (the untouched cup of nectar and bowl of ambrosia, and the rearranged fruits are still there), and slip out of the room well before he arrives.
She has two crowns when she realises that she is free to roam the palace and its grounds when she pleases. She occupies her time discovering rooms and visiting those valleys, rivers, and fields she sees from her window. The garden, however, is something she saves for their walks together.
She has three crowns when she learns not to go down the road that passes the back of the palace. When he returns her to the room, she is unharmed but shaken up nonetheless. The smell of the dark, stagnant waters and putrefaction refuse to leave her until she stands over her bedside tray. He calls for her usual attendants to find her a new robe, and returns soon after she is through changing. He considers her for a moment before asking (lowly and with more apprehension than the first time) if she would like to visit the garden.
He has made her five crowns when their conversations surpass the usual invitation to the garden. She tells him about a new breed of flower she created during the last harvest season. He uses her description to make one from strings of bright purple gems he plucks from other flowers, and adds it to the crown in her hands. The garden steadily grows after that.
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There are seven crowns in her possession when she changes everything.
"My mother will not let you keep me," she says, tearing his attention from his usual inspection of the tray. The crowns, the garden and the tray of food make his intentions all too obvious. "She needs my help and my company. They will send someone to fetch me, and if you stand in their way, Father will bring an army to your doors."
"Naturally," he replies smoothly. He narrows the distance between them and it is the closest they've been around each other since the day in the meadow. "But I ask you this: Do you want to go back?"
A part of her immediately answers yes. She misses the sun, her fields where things thrive and grow, and her mother and brothers and sisters (though she finds that she misses them a little less when she catches his eyes with colours that shift like waves). And yet another part, the same one that is thoroughly aware of their closeness, hesitates.
That shadow of a doubt seems to be all he needs before pulling her close and sealing his mouth over hers. He tastes of nectar and she hungrily chases after it with her tongue, both hands keeping his head close. He has one hand tightly around her waist while the other moves over her left side, softly brushes the curve of a breast (she feels him smiling when she fists the fabric of his robe), and settles over the the taut line of her neck.
"What do you want?" He asks against the delicate shell of her ear, delighting in the way she shivers against him. Pulling her closer, his fingers caress the fullness of her bottom lip. "What do you need?"
This time she doesn't hesitate. "You."
He lays her across the bed, trapping her body between the cool sheets and the furnace that is his body. Everything else falls to the back of her mind with every touch of his sure hands, with every kiss he bestows and with every murmur of her name from his lips. She is unaware that the warm glow of her skin and hair intensifies until he is sure that the bed will catch fire, flames licking their bodies until it consumes everything else around them.
Later when he wakes, their legs are tangled and she is tucked against his naked chest. She looks up, her eyes bright and without the heavy veil of sleep. She slides the smooth curves her body over him, and it is only in the moment before their lips meet that he notices hers are stained red. He tastes pomegranate in her kisses.
When they finally leave the bed to face the herald sent by his brother (her father), the fruits on the tray are black with decay.
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He breathes, Your body is my orchard.
I am undulating grass.
I am a field of wheat he parts with his fingers.
Poppies bloom in my veins.
When he kisses me, he tastes pomegranate.
The night crawls nearer.
The moans of the dead roll and swell.
Mother, we are well.
- Excerpt from Tara Mae Mulroy's Persephone Writes to Her Mother
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