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James doesn’t need money. In fact, he doesn’t really need anything. Sleep, food and drink… He can survive for years and years and years without even a drop of water – but death? Death is his lifeblood.
And he is surrounded by it, of course. Ever since his brother had killed his father, chopped him to pieces and condemned him to eternity in the deepest pits of Tartarus. James had had the responsibility of the Underworld thrust into his arms, and he had taken the mantle of King of Darkness with both discipline and amusement.
Every god had their niche, and his concerned the Great Beyond, Life After Death, the Fade to Black, if you will. He oversaw the going-ons of the Underworld, punished those in need of punishment and blessed those who had lived their life well and true – it fed his land and fed him.
Though not the God of Death – no, Thanatos took that title – he was the God of the Dead. He needed just as much of it as his counterpart did. God, did he need it; craved it like the sweetest of wines, the sharpest of drugs. Death was refreshing and cooling and it slipped down his throat with such relief that for a second he imagined what it would be like to be a mortal stranded in the desert.
(And then the thought passed, and his moment of humbleness was left buried deep to be recovered when he needed it again.)
He found his fix up there – the dumping ground upstairs, the mortal realm. Mortals were wretched little creatures, you see, made of all that dark, slimy stuff that was covered by layers of social expectations and bad jokes and horrible tastes in food. Their greed, combined with their yearning for depravity, made it easy to create a little operation in New York.
A mob boss is what they called him. And honestly, it’s funnier than it should be – having to make deals with little men and carry their metal weapons and intoxicating substances across the world. He could have it all done in a minute, but where’s the fun in that?
He got a steady flow of death, the Underworld thrived, and the people working for him got whatever it is their little wanton hearts desired – money, usually, of which he had too much. It didn’t matter, at the end of the day. They’d all end up down below sooner or later.
“A letter for you,” a voice says beside him.
He had been alone in the room, but Hermes always found a way in. As was his job.
“A letter?” James drawls. He sets down the glass in his hand, taking the offered scroll. “Must be my lucky day.”
Hermes shrugs, dark skin glowing in the firelight of James’s study. He’s taken the form of an unsuspecting delivery man, dark blue pants and a white shirt, a name tag pinned to his chest. Hi, the tag reads. My name is: Sam. Apart from the pair of wings sprouting from his back, shining gold and white in the light of James’s fireplace, he’d blend in perfectly. “If you count a summons to Olympus as lucky.”
A scowl scars James’s face. He never liked the idea of his brother as King – too volatile, too cocky, too unfaithful – but Zeus had bested their father and the throne was rightfully his. Still, even now, a summons makes James’s blood boil. It should be him up there, in reality. “Yet another trip to Olympus. What fun.”
It is not fun.
“Maybe a while up there will do you good. Get you out of this place, at least,” Hermes says, nose wrinkling as he studies the room around him. “The mortal realm can be fun, but too much and my head starts to ache.”
“It’s not so bad.” James tilts his head and lifts his glass once more, stirring it this way and that. “I get death and despair and I don’t need much else.”
Hermes scoffs in that way of his, rolling his eyes so far back that they must be at some threat of getting caught in his eye sockets.
“I’ve heard about this little thing that you’ve got going on here,” Hermes continues. “This whole, uh, operation of yours.”
James’s lips spread in a cold smirk. “Hardly mine. Mortals have been ruining their own lives for years; I simply understood that I could benefit from their self-destruction.”
“It suits you.”
And maybe it does. Gods changed with the times – whatever image of terror was most prevalent in the world, James took it. Large, tattooed, heavy brows and a permanent scowl. He drove a motorcycle, dressed in freshly pressed suits – people cowered in his presence. He terrified people. That’s how he liked it.
“It always has,” James replies.
“A surprise that you haven’t run into anyone else,” Hermes comments. “Lots of us are spending more and more time down here.”
James hums, folding the summons up and stuffing it somewhere in his suit jacket, never to be looked at again – hopefully. “What a surprise.”
(It’s not – at all. He’s made it his job to keep tabs on his family’s whereabouts.
Last he heard, Athena is helping free girls from human traffickers in Africa. She goes by many names up there – Okoye, Natalia, Hope, Nebula. She takes many forms, too, but her goal is always one of justice, reform. Aphrodite is petitioning against whitening creams in Asia and Africa. Hera counsels marriages for the rich and wealthy. Poseidon is aiding sea animals affected by pollution.
((And it’s all so mundane, really. They could, in reality, snap their fingers and have all these problems done with. But humans are not children or pets – they require help, but they do have to solve their own problems at the end of the day.))
Apollo – Steve, he likes to be called – floats in and out of the sunny spots of the world, sunbathing and basking for a few hours before following the sun to another country. And Zeus, well – Zeus had been infatuated by the mortal world since the mortal world had burst into existence. Or, rather, he’d been infatuated with mortal women.)
Hermes hums and ignores James’s sarcasm. “Summer solstice. Be there.”
And so Hermes pops off to somewhere else in the world, leaving James with a summons to Olympus almost 6 months in advance and a growing headache.
X
Nights are spent in the Underworld. Cerberus gets lonely, after all, and James doesn’t trust just anyone to deal with his affairs while he spends time upstairs. Charon moans and groans when he’s asked to do anything except row the souls across the Styx, and besides, he’s not very handy with numbers. And Gaea knows the sheer amount of souls down here calls for some mathematical aptitude.
He feels refreshed when he comes back to his house in New York. That’s how the Underworld left him; it was, after all, an extension of himself, the drive behind his life force. A never-ending kingdom, an expanse of rolling hills and rocky cliffs and flat plains and – if you had lived a good enough life – a paradise of sun and green and crystal waters. The ceilings were high and bumpy with stalactites that had a nasty habit of dropping and crushing whatever poor soul happened to be beneath it–
Poor soul, for lack of better words, because most of them were actually quite horrible.
Hell is home – but this house in New York, this behemoth of a mansion, all dark mahogany and glass and sleek and modern, is swiftly becoming somewhere where he can relax. It’s dotted with both mortal and immortal guards that are more for show than actual use, his office decorated with spoils of war and books by the greatest mortal and demigod minds – because yes, he can admit that there are good ones. Sometimes.
(In truth, he doesn’t actually spend much time in the rest of the house. He sleeps in his palace in the Underworld where he knows it’s safe, does his work in his office, and doesn’t do much else – not that anyone would be foolish enough to attempt to harm him, but…)
He steps from the ancient doorway between realms, emerging from the darkness and into the wet, muddy smell of petrichor and rain, digging half-heartedly through his suit jacket for a cigarette (foul things, yes, but a deterrent for boredom). His gardens are empty, as they usually are, all dead plants and wilting flowers and crunching grass underneath his feet. No plants up here could withstand his power – they would simply wither away with his presence.
James takes a deep breath as his cigarette lights with a snap of his fingers – and then –
He freezes.
Something has changed.
The air is sweeter. Lighter. It settles on those miniscule dust particles and enters his lungs with every breath, fills him with a hope and a brightness that he has never been deserving of – weighs on his heart and has his fingers unflexing from around his cigarette, his eyes fluttering close to savour this spectacular, spectacular power…
And just as his cigarette’s about to tumble to the floor, he’s snapped back to reality. Harshly, too; damp mud and grey skies replacing those images of sun and wildflower meadows that had quite rudely intruded on his thoughts, chest heaving with an exertion he hadn’t actually felt. His lip curls – because, as you would imagine, years and years of power and control don’t leave much room for being caught off guard many times, and he decides right then and there that he doesn’t like it at all.
And, he thinks, eyes narrowing, he sure as hell doesn’t appreciate the amount of sunlight that came with that vision, either. He can still see it burning behind his eyes, yellow and white and fading into red as he storms into the grand foyer.
A boy with shaky hands and brown hair is standing guard there; Peter Parker, son of Nike. A nervous boy, the son of the goddess of victory – truly, he was only hired because James took pity on him. As a son of a minor goddess he was often overlooked and put aside. James understood that.
(That is the only show of kindness that will be seen from him in this century, he promises.)
“M-Mister Hades, sir, you’re back–”
He doesn’t bother correcting his name. He thunders past, fists clenched and doors flying open to the courtyard instinctively – and it’s back again, sickeningly alluring and so sweet that he’s not sure whether his mouth should be watering or whether it should make him angrier. New York is his.
Awaiting him in the courtyard is his war chariot. Well, what used to be a war chariot, but is presently a motorcycle, one of the creations of a child of Hephaestus back in the 19th century. His is of the highest quality; leather as black as coal, gleaming silver fixtures. It runs smoothly and ferociously, purring underneath him like some magnificent great cat. And he is an image, he knows – the clothes and tattoos, the impenetrable helmet that somehow portrays as much glory as his Helm of Darkness is capable of, his bike cutting through traffic like a sharpened blade through flesh.
Fear is as much in presentation as it is in the mind, reader, and James has perfected it. He is terrifying in that awe-inspiring way; soldiers crumbling on ancient battlefields and fatal accidents, knives and blood and empty eyes and all that which he is associated with – and any mortal who lays eyes on him would agree. They just wouldn’t know why; such tiny, tiny brains.
James climbs atop his chariot and speeds into the city with only the memory of an engine’s growl left behind him, weaving through streets and alleyways and boroughs with no direction in mind. It is only his senses that guide him – that irritating, confusing yearning that is buzzing in his cells, pulling him closer and closer to his destination. It has spread through New York like a plague. No street, no alleyway, no sky-fucking-scraper is free from this sprawling power, and that annoyance balls up in his chest until it’s a burning, fiery hate.
He wants to know who’s intruding on him. Who is challenging him.
He doesn’t quite remember the winding path he takes through the crowded streets. But when he ends up outside of some rinky-dink flower shop – The Flower That Grew From Concrete – he’s unsure for a moment of whether his senses have finally failed him.
But no; the second his shoe hits the ground it takes him from the ground up. That warmth, like sunlight and days in the Elysian Fields, ambrosia and strawberries and honeyed wine. He almost shivers. He pulls his jacket taut and does up the button, before steeling his expression and storming in.
A bell rings overhead as he pushes the door open. Inside is warm despite the overcast weather outside, dirt dusting the ground and shelves piled high with growing seedlings. There’s a bookshelf of gardening books on the far wall, little plant pots and terrariums hanging from the ceiling; and a voice calls out from the door behind the counter:
“One second!”
So this is who has so foolishly spread their power through his domain. This disembodied, bell-like voice that rings through the air and echoes in his ears even when it’s gone. The voice telling him to wait. He sniffs, nose wrinkling.
But he waits.
“What can I help you with?"
And Gaea help him. He’s hit with the full force of it, his stomach turning pleasantly as you appear from behind the corner, a disarming little lady dressed in pastels with a flower tucked behind your ear. And he thinks, vaguely, that it would be silly to imagine your power was coming from elsewhere. It is painted on every inch of skin, every strand of hair, every lash on your eyes and wrinkles on your lips. He wants to tell you this.
Instead, he folds his arms and sneers. "I could feel you halfway across this city."
"Sorry,” you say, tilting your head. You know who he is, then. Of course you do. You must be able to sense him as much as he can you. “This city’s so grey. You understand, of course.”
And you move past him, wiping your hands on your apron before beginning to sweep at the dirt on the ground. He can only gape at the casual tone you take with him – the audacity of it all!
“Do you know who you’re speaking to?” His voice takes on that growling echo, power seeping into every word spoken. The whole room shakes; glass in its pane and flowers in their pots, the books on the shelf rattling against each other.
“Stop that immediately!” You exclaim, rushing forward. You abandon your broom to stand before him. “You’re scaring them!”
(How long has it been since someone talked to him like this? He wonders in the back of his mind. Too long. )
“I know who you are,” you say firmly, eyes somehow simultaneously doe-like and stern. “I know who you are, Hades.”
(And he hasn’t allowed just anyone call him that in 100 years without some sort of reprimandation – save for poor Peter a while ago – but there is this strange little way his name coats your tongue that makes him selfish. Stupidly, stupidly selfish.)
He realises your hand is on his arm. Warm – and the room gets darker as his heartbeat accelerates. The plants begin to shrivel and wither, greying with each passing second.
“Can you stop it?” You ask, voice soft. “They’ll die. They’re just seedlings. Children.”
He wishes he could. Curse the earth and the moon and the sun, he wishes he could stop. But his power is one of death and destruction and–
Your other hand ghosts his cheek.
“I take life,” he grits out. “I can’t give it.”
“Everyone can give life. I just think you’ve never tried.”
He hasn’t. He’s never had any reason to.
“Focus on them,” you murmur, clasping one hand around his. (Soft and warm and buzzing with the sweetest, most addictive power–) “They breathe and see just as we do. They need light and water just as we do. We’re not so different.”
He’s not focusing on them. He’s focusing on you – wondering where you came from, what your name was, what in the name of every god alive you are doing to him. Witchcraft, he thinks. Maybe you’re a daughter of Hecate, and he is bewitched.
Why had he been angry at this? Why had he despised this light, this growth, this happiness as soon as it had graced his presence?
“There.” You smile and it’s like the sun. He catches a glimpse of a flourishing tulip plant and his eyes become round with surprise. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?"
(He did that.)
(He gave life.)
(He gave instead of taking away.)
He is still wide-eyed and befuddled as you step away again, taking up your broom once more. What an image he must make – the Lord of Death, King of the Underworld, rendered and gaping mess because of a woman’s sweet touch and way with words.
"What was it you wanted, then?” You ask.
He can’t remember.
X
Hades is not all you expected him to be.
He is terrifying, of course. Exceptionally so. He is tall and broad and you swear you can see hellfire itself in his eyes, and he walks with such a natural, commanding power that for a second – only a second, you swear – you wonder why his brother is on the throne. And he does scare you in some way, despite what your actions may have suggested – so dark and grim and your flowers, your babies, are wilting, greying from the stems up–
But, Gaea have mercy, there is something in him. You felt it the moment your godly flesh met mortal ground; it had filled your lungs like warm, heavy smoke and brushed the stray hairs from your forehead, comforting and tragic and addicting in nature. You had shut your eyes and tilted your head up – and you saw it all. Death and decay, the cut-throat cycle of life, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Death giving way to life, two sides of the same coin.
You suddenly weren’t so scared.
And then he walks into your tiny little shop with all the silent intimidation of the old gods, blotting out your light and crushing your power beneath his fists in his anger. (Still, frighteningly beguiling.) You had felt him across the city as he drew closer, had anticipated his arrival and waited with bated breath and a pounding heart – and when he calmed, when you had helped him see what he was truly capable of, his power had calmed too. He no longer blotted out your light in brazen fury – simply made space for it. Allowed your power to ebb and flow over his, shivers up your spine and breathing short in the sheer electricity your union creates.
No, Hades is not at all what you expected him to be. He is more than your mother ever warned, more than your father had ever cautioned – but you’ve never really cared much for the opinions of others, and you know in your heart of hearts that there is something good in Hades. You will make them see it. You will make him see it.
x
Why is he here again? He’s not quite sure.
(Except he is. He never got your name and it’s been plaguing him.)
He’s felt something like you before. That same… same happiness. It bubbles up in the pit of his stomach like a restrained laugh, tugs at the sides of his lips like a smile he wants dearly to display. But he keeps it inside, sets his frown on his face and straightens his back.
He has returned to that borderline-decrepit shop, and he wonders as he eyes the peeling paint why you hadn’t just snapped your fingers and repaired it all in a matter of seconds. He supposes, begrudgingly, that it’s quite charming – though far from the sharp edges and cleanliness of his New York house; far from the grand Grecian architecture of his palace below.
“You’re back again,” you say when he enters, surprised. You’re wrist deep in foul-smelling compost. “Hello. Is there something you need?"
He is struck for a second by the mundanity of it all. Here he is, overlord of death, standing awkwardly in this tiny space that smells of mud and grass and fresh air. And you, this godly woman with power so tantalizing he can hardly think straight, are asking him if there’s something he needs.
(…He can think of more than one thing he needs from you.)
"I never got your name.”
“You came here for my name?” Your eyebrow quirks. “I’d think you’d have better things to do.”
“You are a powerful woman living in my city,” he replies shortly. “That should be answer enough.”
You hum and remove your hands from the mud. He expects you to say something, then, anything – but you’re comfortable to just continue silently ambling around your shop, content in his presence in your space. Not many people would feel the same.
“What’s your name, then?” He speaks after a few minutes, arms folded and back leaned against the bookshelf. “What are you? A nature spirit? A daughter of Hecate? Demeter?"
"Do I look like a daughter of Hecate?” You say in amusement. But you relent: “My name is Persephone, but I prefer ______."
It’s strange how gods do that, isn’t it? They’re given these celestial, all-encapsulating names – and they swap them for these meaningless mortal words that honestly mean nothing. Even him. Except yours does mean something, and somehow, he likes it better than Persephone. Suits you more.
”_____,“ he repeats; lets the syllables roll over his tongue like sweet ambrosia. He hears your breathing hitch and then continue, and he feels a little flame of pride.
"My mother is Demeter, as you guessed,” you say. “Though I suppose the flower shop doesn’t leave much space for error, does it?”
“And you’re not half mortal?"
Another amused smile sent his way. "Do I feel half mortal?”
“No,” he says truthfully. You do not. You are pure, unfiltered strength. Gentle and forgiving, yes, but headstrong. “You’re different from your mother.”
Your eyebrows twitch just the tiniest bit in surprise. You look at him over the leaves of a selection of succulents, eyes curious. “Really? How curious. Many say that I am just like her.”
“No, no.” He can’t help but take a step closer, sinking deeper into that dangerously alluring aura of yours. His head tilts in thought. “I’ve met your mother. She’s as cruel as she is kind. You… you are something else entirely.”
He’s pleased to see that you’re clearly taken aback – eyes wide and mouth pursed into the shape of a perfect o, hands freezing in their tracks – and he suddenly gets the feeling that you are used to living in the shadow of her.
He steps closer, joins you behind the shelves and takes his place beside you. This close, he can’t truly distinguish you from him. Life and death, beginnings and endings – you are one and the same.
“Can you feel me?” He asks. His fingers reach for you, almost shaking with the anticipation of finally, finally meeting your skin – and when they do, it’s like a wave of… of something rolls over him, all relief and softness and that undiluted power of yours. Exhaling, his fingers trail up your arm. “The way I can feel you?"
(He doesn’t need to say the rest for you to understand what he means; in my blood, in my bones, in my heart, in my mind.)
He’s not sure whether to be relieved or worried when your silence prevails, and you simply continue to stare up at him with those damned eyes of yours. It feels like a furnace is burning in his chest, consuming his entire being – surely you can see it on his face? He thinks with those bright eyes you can see through him. A pane of glass he is.
"Yes,” you say. But your voice is breathy, the only sign of discomposure you allow him – and his chest soars because maybe he’s not the only one affected by this (whatever this may be). “Yes, I do. Every… every hour of every day – and when you leave, I feel what you’ve left behind.”
“What does it feel like?”
(His hand is on your waist now. He has never felt so strongly in his entire existence. He has never felt so mortal in his entire existence.)
“Like… Like…” You swallow, wetting your lips. “Fire. And smoke. Dying plants becoming dirt and growing into something new. Time passing… dreams lost and gained. A – a sad kind of beauty.”
(For too long he has been the tyrant – the selfish, uncaring king, the monster under the bed, the enemy of justice and good.
(He has known you for a week of his too-long life and you’re turning him on his head.))
X
“Are you okay, sir?” Peter’s voice is an almost unwelcome disturbance to his thoughts. “You look distracted.”
“I’m not,” James snaps. The room grows chillier – outside, he sees the branches of a tree near the window snap and fall to the ground in his irritation. He grits his teeth. You’d hate that.
And that was the problem, clear as day. In all his years he has never been so affected by one woman. He’s had many, of course – dryads and water sprites and mortals, lots and lots of mortals, though not to the same degree as Zeus or Dionysus. He had his fun and time ticked on, but you’ve stopped him dead – no pun intended – in his tracks.
You, with your eyes and your hair and your skin and everything that almost everyone has but in such a way that has him enamored. All light and good and everything that he isn’t.
He is in love, he thinks. He hasn’t known its decisive pain before but he thinks this is it. And it’s terrible, really; makes him feel like a pair of soot-covered hands reaching for the purest white rose. Or Icarus, that foolish boy that he had watched reach for the sun and fall to his doom all those years ago.
(He will ruin you, that much he’s certain of. His body is torn between wanting to and fighting against it.)
The last time he’d seen you was a week ago. And still, your trace is laid over the city like a blanket, mingling with the almost overpowering strength he possesses as one of the Big Three. It’s enough, he says to himself, to be able to feel you. He can satiate his desire – this unexplainable ache, that scratch that can’t be reached – he satiate himself without tarnishing you, this way.
“Of course, sir,” Peter says quietly. The pen in his hand clicks a few times, hesitance drawing tight in the air, and then– “Have you… noticed anything lately?”
“Like what?”
“I–I don’t know exactly.” The young man’s nose scrunches up, and he glances out the window. “Things are brighter. The air is fresher. The grass is greener.”
So he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the shift in things.
“I mean, it’s New York,” Peter continues, laughing nervously. “Things can only get so clean, right? But lately…”
“I know the little lady responsible,” James says, leaning back in his seat with a huff. “Daughter of Demeter. Persephone – or, _____, rather.”
Peter’s eyes are wide with wonder. “I–I’ve never met a goddess before. What’s she like?”
(And it would have been a stupid question had it concerned anyone else – because the others, while they have their differences, they’re all the same at base. He’s known them from the beginning when the titans fell and the Godly Age began. You are the only one that has that special something.)
James shakes his head, and for a second, he’s back in your flower shop. Remembering your smile and your flowery perfume and the warmth that followed you like a shadow. “Like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. Like…” Peter continues to stare in that childlike way of his, urging the god to continue, but– “…That’s all you’re getting, boy.”
“Right, right…”
X
Another week and a half passes when you appear out of nowhere. And he truly means nowhere; he’s sitting in his office, paperwork and paperwork and paperwork and then suddenly he feels you. And he could go through the things that you feel like again – could slap synonym after synonym on his lips to describe the relief that washes over him and down his spine – but the truth is that he’s moving too fast to even think about it.
He pushes himself out of his chair and bursts out of his office so fast that Peter fumbles and stumbles and almost falls out of his chair – and when he breaks down the hallway and turns left onto the grand staircase, he sees you. Gaea, does he see you. He doesn’t even take notice of Peter skulking around behind him, doesn’t question how you got past all of his guards.
“Your house is awfully large,” you say. Your eyes peer up to the elongated ceiling, voice echoing through the empty expanse of his foyer. “Don’t you get lonely?"
"Gods don’t get lonely,” he replies, taking each step as they come. How out of place you look in the dark, brooding space he lives in. He melts into the shadows, black suit and black hair. You’re dressed in pale yellow, a flower pin tucked behind your ears on either side of your head. The fabric of your dress brushes your knees, and he’s reminded of that idiotic mortal play, Romeo and Juliet;
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!
James swallows. Doesn’t seem so stupid anymore.
You hum in reply, blinking up at him with hands clasped and heels tapping against each other leisurely. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“What are you doing here?"
You shrug. "I got lonely – so you see, Hades, how your assumption isn’t true."
(There must be 2 million monsters, gods, demi-gods, legends in New York that you could go to if you were lonely. You’ve come to him. He tries to not let that affect him.)
"James.”
“Hm?”
“James,” he repeats, sounding much angrier than he intends to. (And he’s not even angry – just taken aback. Just unprepared for you to appear as a beacon of light in his house.) “My name. Not Hades.”
“Hm. I like it.”
Peter makes an awkward sound behind him, and your eyes zero in on him immediately.
“Hello there!” You say warmly, smiling. “And who might you be?”
And Peter, bless his soul, doesn’t know what to do – not with the beautiful woman beaming at him, not with the things you so obviously make those in your presence feel – all that safety and cosiness – and he most definitely doesn’t know what to do with the way his boss is acting like a confused teenage boy. It is extremely unsettling to see the God of Death hiding a – is that a blush?
"P–Peter Parker. My – my name is Peter.”
“Hello Peter Parker.” Your grin widens. James is as taken as the boy beside him, and he’s sure you can tell when your eyes meet his again. “There’s a garden here?"
"You’ll be disappointed,” James replies. “It’s all dead grass and weeds.”
But you’re resolute – simply place your hands on your hips and raise your chin. “Lead the way, James.”
And so he does – fixes Peter with a look that says don’t move and begins down the long, twisting hallway that leads to the gardens.
The journey is silent and verging on awkward – at least to him. You seem fine, utterly happy to simply stare at the decor as it passes and hum to yourself, a jolly little tune that he imagines could very well bewitch even the sternest of men. (After all, here he is.)
He opens the door with a blast of invisible intent, revealing the plots of lacklustre foliage and dry air – and immediately, you’re kneeled down beside him, cupping the brittle petals of a dried daisy.
“Oh, you poor things,” you coo. “Time hasn’t been kind to you, has it?"
The daisy suddenly springs to attention, vibrant green and ivory flooding back into it so quickly he almost misses it. And, like a line of dominoes, life is breathed back into the dry, arid gardens – fighting only momentarily against his own darkness before it relents and allows your power to flow unrestrained. The grass returns to emerald and the flowers stretch up towards you like you’re the sun – and maybe you are. He’d believe it.
"You’re amazing,” he says. (And no, he doesn’t mean to, but what of it?) He clears his throat then, looking up into the sky at the sun which is somehow less blinding than the bashful smile you send him. “The plants up here are… testy. Down below, they like me much better. Bloom all year round.”
“What’s it like?” You ask. “I’ve only ever known Olympus. And now, of course, the earth. But not many tell tales of Hell.”
“It tends to be a one-way ticket,” he says dryly – but after a moment, he indulges you. “There are boundless fields of grass tall enough to get lost in. Wildflowers and orchards of black apples, too. The River Styx feeds the land, you see – for all the death down there, there is life in equal measure. The ceilings stretch so high you’d think they’d be able to reach Olympus, and they glitter with gems and jewels.”
“And your house?” You say, eyes soft. “Surely the God of Death has a palace as magnificent as the burden he holds?”
He hums, smile widening. “If I didn’t know any better, little one, I’d think you want to visit.” When you simply shrug your shoulders and grin, he continues with a short laugh. “Of course I do. A palace befitting of my title – built by the best architects over the last few millennia. There’s a garden there, too – better than this one had been before you fixed it, as I said.”
You seem to buzz with excitement at the thought. “That’s amazing–” And you roll over onto your back and sigh up at the sun, eyes closing languidly. “I’d love to see it, though I fear my mother wouldn’t let me.”
“Your mother still has so much control over you?” He asks. “I suppose I can’t say anything. Mine has been asleep for the past few hundred thousand years after my brother cut our father into tiny pieces.”
You hum, stretching your arms above your head and arching your back – (don’t look, don’t look, don’t look) – “My mother sent me here to avoid suitors, you know. A storm-spirit called Alcibiades damn near wrecked Olympus to show his devotion to me.”
An ugly streak of something burns itself into his chest. Dark and slimy, like crude oil, and he restrains a snarl. He can’t help but feel – as foolish as it may be – that you’re his. Surely the universe wouldn’t be so cruel and leave you so close if you weren’t meant to be.
(This storm-spirit, he thinks, whoever he may be – will fall to the deepest pits of Tartarus when he meets his end.)
“And I suppose you’re heart broken?”
“No,” you say. “He was rude and brutish. I only mourned the great fountains and columns that went down in his display – the ones in the main square. Do you know of them?”
“I don’t make it a point to visit often,” he says. He had been to Olympus many times – not banished, contrary to the mortal tales – he simply chooses not to go. He makes them uncomfortable. Uneasy. “When I was younger I frequented there more often. Now…”
“And you don’t miss it?”
“Miss it?” He repeats. A shocked laugh escapes him, because he knows in all the years he’s avoided Olympus he’s never once missed it. Longed to be accepted, maybe. But to miss something you have to know it first, and he never truly knew Olympus. “No, little one, there’s nothing to miss.”
Your eyes widen, and you jump up from the grass indignantly. “Nothing to miss? Nothing to miss?“
“What is it that’s so great about Olympus, then?”
“I… Well, I don’t know,” you say, frowning suddenly, and he wonders just what on this gods-forsaken earth he’ll have to do to put the happiness back where it belongs along the perch of your mouth. This sudden dejected pout on your lips is too foreign on your features. It makes his stomach twist in the most… uncharacteristic way. “I… a lot of things, I suppose. The sun is always shining, and the streets are cobblestone and lined with flowers and the trees are always green – and the music!”
You brighten again and – unconsciously – his smile does too.
“The music never stops,” you say, voice a sigh, and you twirl out from behind him, your hands somehow already covered in soil and a stray petal perched upon the pale yellow of your dress’s shoulder. “Lyres and mandolins and baglamas! Oh, and the Nine Muses! Their voices are the mother of all music, and they play their instruments so sweetly–!”
James’s smile falters slightly. He had never had the pleasure of hearing the Nine play or sing. The music always stops playing and the flowers you so fondly speak of close up in fear until he’s passed.
(And it’s a pity; he’s always quite liked music. Flowers, too. He has them down under, all drooping black petals and blood red stamen and rubies growing from stems. But he especially likes the leafy ones. The green and white ones. The yellow and pink ones. The ones you grow.)
“It must be beautiful,” he murmurs – and your eyes fix on him, wide and pitiful and so, so emotion-filled that for a moment he forgets the years of neglect, forgets that he is completely and utterly alone in his underground kingdom, no queen to speak of. (His brothers had been luckier than him in that sense.)
“You’ve never heard them?”
“No. Not much music in hell, either.” He shrugs. He has never quite desired or craved pity, but you give it so sweetly that he is steady forgetting his place.
“No music?” You echo. Your eyebrows follow your tone of voice and furrow in confusion. “No music? Or dancing? Or, or–”
“Not much to dance with, either. Though Cerberus certainly tries,” he quips. “Don’t worry, little one, I have no talent with the ways of rhythm anyways.”
He watches curiously as your hands suddenly find their place on your hips – and for a heart-stopping moment he sees your mother in you.
(Demeter may be the goddess of agriculture, fertility, harvest – she gives and gives and her gifts are fruitful – but she is as cruel as she is generous. Famine, starvation, miscarried pregnancies. She takes as much as she provides, two sides of the same finicky coin. You carry that same weight in your eyes, maybe in a smaller amount.)
“We can’t have that!” You exclaim, turning to him. “It’s settled, then. Come on.”
He eyes the soft hand that’s outstretched to him, skeptic. “For what?”
“A dance,” you say, as if it’s obvious. “Maybe once you see how marvelous it is you’ll want to do it more.”
And James can’t say that he’s been taken aback very much over the eons he has existed for, but…
(Where have you been for this long? How had he missed you? How he had known living before you burst into existence?)
“I’m not dancing,” he says shortly.
“Oh, come off it! Just a little one.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“…There’s no music.”
“Well,” you say, bashful, “I’m no Muse, but I’ll sing us a tune…”
(No muse, you say? No falser words have ever been spoken. He used to mock those lovestruck mortals who drove themselves to sickness over poems and paintings and sculptures of their love’s likeness, but here he is, a god in a garden in the mortal realm, prepared to dance without music because you batted your eyelashes and asked him nicely.)
He sighs and huffs like he’s never been asked such a ridiculous request – which he hasn’t been, because, believe it or not, not many are lining up to dance with death (at least, not in that way) – but he meets you in the middle of the field anyways, dirt and grass scuffing against his Italian leather shoes and lumping up beneath his feet. Through his bravado he’s faced with that shaky sort of nervousness that’s so foreign to him that it catches him off-guard. He wants to touch you, wants to feel the warmth of you beneath his hands and against his chest and smell the scent of you around him, surrounding him, drowning him–
You step so close that your noses almost touch, and he’s surprised that he’s as composed as he is. But then you begin to sing, and he thinks – he knows – that there is something in you that is in him, that you are made from the same golden ichor as he is, that you hold the cold rock in his chest in your lovely hands and he’s not even sure that you know.
“I would shun the light, share in evening’s cool and quiet,” you begin, quiet and melodic and everything he imagines a Muse of Apollo would sound like; silver bells and plucked strings and harmonies galore. “Who would trade that hum of night? For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight…”
You know the steps to take and he follows you like a devoted attendant, one step back and one to the side, one arm pressed to his back and the other on his shoulder – and he knows, quite alarmingly so, that if he had been cursed and born as a mortal he would have devoted his life to you, praying and kneeling at your altar in the hopes that you would turn your gaze to him just once. Perhaps he would still do that now. He certainly feels like he is wont to do so.
“All the tales the same, told before and told again; a soul that’s born in cold and rain knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.”
You meet his eyes, and he feels it again – your power, rising up from inside you, warm and gentle and soft and brushing against his own inky blackness. The caress of a lover’s fingertips, a warm, intimate embrace; he pulls you tighter still, and watches as your words falter momentarily and your eyes flicker down to his lips. A step back. A step to the side.
“Each day, you’d rise with me. Know that I would gladly be the Icarus to your certainty – oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight…”
His patience has reached its peak.
It is the sweetest of sounds that leaves your mouth when he pulls you forwards and seizes your lips for his own – and, Mother Gaea, he wants to crumble. Lips like flower petals and fruit and sweet, fine wine. He knows now what those acolytes of love had been thinking when they slaved over their sonnets and paintings. In his head he has already erected a statue in your likeness, a golden crown above your head.
_____ – wife of Hades, Queen of Hell. The very thought makes him sigh against you – and, vaguely, he registers the grass hitting his knees as he sinks to the ground, hands holding your head as if it’s some precious, priceless thing. You’re warm and tangible on his lap, tongue moving against his so naturally that there is no doubt in his mind that you were made for him – and he, you.
When you part ways, breathless from the lack of oxygen that you don’t truly need, your eyes are sparkling like the surface of the sea on a sunny day.
“I want to go there,” you pant against his lips, thumb rubbing tenderly against his temple. “The Underworld. Take me with you, James.”
X
He doesn’t. Not right away. His mind is at war, after all – split, a mile long trench stabbed between his desires.
There is something wrong about wanting you by his side – something dark and corrupt and scandalous. You’re just too different. Too… good. Every second spent with you feels like another petal falling off a marvelous flower, another leaf plucked from a branch and thrown to the ground. He’s ruining you, he’s sure–
(Or is that his brothers’ haughty glances? His father’s cruel snarl? Are these his thoughts, truly?)
– and he knows you deserve more than he can give but he knows, undoubtedly, no-one could possibly love you as much as he does. Hellfire in his chest and magma in his veins, alight for you and only you. No, he doubts, no man has ever felt such power, such weakness, since the dawn of time, since Chaos took his first breath and created the first Titans. Impossible.
Weeks pass. Every day is spent under the sun, watching you bring life to everything around you (even him). And like a wreck in slow motion – Icarus, reaching towards the sun, wax melting the bond of the gilded death trap upon his back – he can feel himself falling deeper and deeper; every kiss exchanged, every candid smile at the sun, every whispered promise into the crook of his neck…
He is waiting for the metaphorical ball to drop. For your mother to rise out of the grass, teeth bared and face set in a scowl, screaming and cursing him for taking her daughter away. Don’t get too comfortable, a voice in his head warns. Don’t expect any more.
"This city is brighter.”
James opens his eyes to the previously empty interior of his office. The thick curtains have been drawn, allowing in long beams of light that dust over every surface possible.
James sighs, shutting his eyes again. “Nobody in this damned family knows how to knock.”
Apollo – Steve – grins, leaning back in the chair he’s found. A true embodiment of the sun, all blonde-haired and golden skinned, bright smiles and loud, booming laughs. He had always been kind to James, one of the members of his family who he could actually stand. And now here he is, swinging back and forth in James’s office chair.
“And where are you dropping in from?"
"Angola. Such a sunny country–"
"And you’re here because…?”
“This city feels different,” Steve says. “More bearable. And I know it has nothing to do with you."
"How kind of you.” James rolls his eyes and reaches for a cigarette. Something to distract him from showing his emotions on his face.
“Well?”
James huffs, sending smoke curling out in every direction. “A woman, Steve. Daughter of Demeter. Happy?"
"A woman, eh?"
"Shut up."
"I didn’t even say anything!”
“You were going to.”
There’s a beat of silence. Steve shifts, then, glancing slyly up at him.
“… You look happier.”
Yes, he’s aware of it. Quite painfully so. Less time spent brooding and more time spent restraining laughs, more time spent brushing grass off of his shoes. His power is gentler, more accommodating. A love he desperately wants but doesn’t find himself fitting of.
James jaw clenches at the thought. When he says nothing, only staring resolutely at a spot above Steve’s head, the sun god’s eyes narrow. “You’ve lived a long, hard life, James. Allow yourself a respite. You deserve that much."
And he stands with a sigh, stretching his arms above his head and blinking tiredly. He glances out the window behind James head, face reflecting the burning orange of the setting sun.
"I must be off,” Steve murmurs, smiling amiably at his relative. “Live and love, Hades.”
And he’s gone before James can snap at him for calling him Hades.
Live and love. You deserve that much.
James stubs his cigarette in his ashtray and hums thoughtfully to himself.
…You had asked him to take you to the Underworld.
And so, he does – because quite frankly, you could ask him to cut out his heart and serve it to you on a silver platter and he’d do it. He meets you in front of his house and leads you to the knobbly stone stairs that sink into the ground, swathed in shadow.
A hand cups your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, a figment of his imagination, a love he never thought himself deserving of – and, with a wave of his hand, he watches as you see the first glimpses of his realm.
(Somewhere in his head he is scared. As much as a god of his stature can be; because for all the bad there is in it, hell is his home. He loves it. He wants you to love it. But something tells him that perhaps there is too much darkness there. No sun, not enough green trees, not much bird song–)
“Wow,” you breathe, stepping forward. “This is… this is…”
And you’re awestruck. As amazing, breathtaking, awe-inspiring as Olympus is, there is something in the Underworld that you can’t even manage to put into words. It's… It's…
“Beautiful,” you murmur, heart thudding in your chest. You peek over your shoulder to the man who’s already watching you. “This place is… it’s simply beautiful, James.”
You reach backwards tentatively, brushing your fingers against his before seizing his hand completely. Here is this great god, this old magic that flows through him, this insurmountable power he possesses, and yet, he looks at you like you’ve hung the sun in the sky.
The ground suddenly starts to tremble. You gasp–
“… And here comes Cerberus,” he mutters. The fearsome behemoth of a dog bounds towards you both, fur shining black and white in the lowlight. “Careful–"
"He’s a baby!"
…Not quite the reaction he had expected to his terrifying 3-headed hound the size of a double-decker bus. Heart warming all the same, if the pleasant turning of his stomach is anything to go by.
And – to James’s surprise – as he approaches, the big lug flops over onto his back and begins panting like a common dog, legs in the air and stomach bared. He’s never reacted like that before – but maybe you simply have that much power over everything, he thinks, watching with raised brows and a tiny smile. Maybe he is not the only one affected by you.
Your arms are scratching along Cerberus’ stomach, your laugh filling the air like the sweetness of buddleias and lavender.
"Oh, you’re amazing,” you’re cooing, kissing along his fur, “You’re just a big baby! A big, big baby.”
And he’s not even the tiniest bit jealous of the love you’re giving Cerberus when he finally approaches, patting his dog on the stomach affectionately and whistling a short tune. “Go on, you great big brute. Hell won’t guard itself.”
You both watch as Cerberus disappears into the distance, and then you turn to him, seizing his hands.
“Show me everything,” you say breathlessly. And he does. The Fields of Asphodel and Elysium and the Styx, the orchards of black apples and the neck-high grasses. He shows you where the souls enter the realm after death and where they’re judged and sorted. He even shows you Tartarus – though from a considerable distance, too apprehensive to venture close with you on his arm. And then finally, you reach his palace.
To anyone it would be formidable; standing tall and dark against the fiery backdrop of the Underworld. Tall spires and flying buttresses and arched windows, surrounded by tall iron wrought gates engraved with tales of suffering from all strains of time – but somehow, someway, it is warm. Comforting, even.
He watches you ooh and aah as you meander through black marble hallways lined with statues and skeleton guards, past ceiling-high fireplaces of purple hellfire and his throne room – we’ll come back later, he promises you when you cast a longing look towards the closed doors. The gardens first, little one.
(He can’t help but note how right it is to have you here. Like you’ve already made it your home.)
Through another set of gates the garden lies – one of his proudest creations. It is an oasis of life in the realm of death, filled with plants that can only be grown in his presence; deep bloody roses and stems with fist-sized jewels for petals, leaves that slither like snakes through the undergrowth of skeleton-bushes. There are fruits that simply seep up through the dirt and perch themselves on the soil, waiting to be eaten, and trees that bend and twist to meet overhead.
It is the most diverse garden in all the realms – and from the second you step through it, you’re completely taken.
“Oh, Gaea,” you murmur. Your eyes flutter about, not sure what to focus on – and you take one tentative step forward, then another. “They’re so happy.”
“They are?” He muses. When he reaches his hand out to feel one, it nuzzles towards him like a cat would. “They are.”
“I’m not surprised, of course,” you say. “You’re not a cruel man.”
Not a cruel man? Yet again, he’s stunned into silence – and you watch with an amount of hesitation, petting the leaves of a nearby bush, before speaking.
“It must be hard,” you say quietly. Your bottom lip pouts out, eyebrows tilted upwards in such a picture of sadness that for a moment he’s confused. Such melancholy. And for him. “You… they treat you so unfairly, James. And for what? You’ve done nothing. You’ve… you only took up the mantle your brother gave you. And you’ve been shunned because of it!”
“Little one…”
“And it’s beautiful down here, truly,” you continue hurriedly. “I’ve never seen anything like it – but what is beauty if you have no-one to share it with?”
You end breathlessly, sniffling. “Sorry. I just… you deserve much better.”
James fights past the sudden lump in his throat and smiles – not that cold, emotionless smirk that brought frightened men to their knees or instilled fear in even the most furious of foes. Small and warm and filled with a gratitude that he hasn’t the courage to put into words.
(Ironic, isn’t it? All the fearsome creatures he’s slaughtered, all the wars fought and won, all havoc wreaked and villages pillaged and the one thing that frightens him is you. The pastel-wearing flower-growing princess, queen of his heart though you don’t know it.)
“I have been given much better,” James assures you – and when you look up, when you meet his eyes again, he reaches for your hand. “The Moirai have blessed me again with you.”
“And I with you.”
He finds himself moving closer to you, hand trailing up your bicep and thumb smoothing across your bottom lip. Nose to nose, breathing through each other as if one – and he’s once again struck by how split he is. His mind is Janus, a two-headed trickster dangling two different paths in front of him. Which one he will take is a whole other matter.
“I’ve heard a rumour,” you whisper, “that those who eat here remain here forever.”
He stills.
“Is it true, James?” And you look up at him with curious eyes before stepping away. He misses the warmth of you immediately, but his attention is focused on the pomegranate you’ve suddenly plucked from the soil.
His throat tightens.
“Yes.” His hand comes up to close around both your own and the fruit. “Those who feast in the Underworld become part of the Underworld. Part of me.”
“How often does that happen, then?"
"Never.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. As you’d imagine, not many are lining up to sneak into Hell and eat.”
“They might just be missing out, then,” you tease, though your voice shakes.
“You can put it down,” he tells you softly. “I don’t expect you to stay.”
“I’m not scared.”
“I know you’re not.” If there’s anything he knows wholeheartedly it’s this.
“I’ve never… felt anything like I feel when I’m with you. It’s like – like I’m more than alive. More than what I am–"
This is what he had been afraid of. But he had pursued you anyway, let you get too close, and now you want to throw away everything for him. Don’t misunderstand – a large majority of him is ecstatic. All he wants is you. But in turn, your happiness is held above all. You wouldn’t be happy down here. Not with him – not without the sun and everything else you’re offered up there.
“Listen to me,” he says, cupping your jaw in his hands. “Listen to me, little one, because it’s important that you understand. I want you here more than I’ve wanted anything.”
You swallow. “But?”
“But you are you and I am me. There are certain things that cannot happen and we are one of them.”
“Why not?” You stare at him with glassy eyes. “You – you think that I am corruptible but there is nothing to corrupt. I have lived my life on Olympus and I’ve grown tired, James, of taking each day as it comes. This–” You take his hand in yours and hold it over your heart– “cannot possibly be thrown away. You can’t. You can’t, or you will break my heart.”
You cry tears that slick over your cheeks and drip from your chin into the soil. He can’t help but rub his fingers over the silvery wet tracks they leave, heart thudding in his chest.
“If you eat that fruit you will be stuck here,” he says, rushed. “Most of the year you will spend here. The rest will see you bound to me, bound to Hell, and this is not the place for you to be–"
"What is it that makes you think this place is so horrendous?” You exclaim. “This feels more like home than Olympus ever did. You would take me away from here?"
"I… I…”
“James.” Murmured so softly, so lovingly, so pitifully. “Let’s be done with these dramatics.”
“…You know what this would entail, little one.”
“I do.”
“…And you would gladly…?"
"I would gladly rule by your side.”
“They will spin it, you know,” he says, pupils dilated at the thought. “They – they’ll say I took you. That you fought me every step of the way down–”
“Let them!” Your voice is fierce and hushed when you surge forward, a hand on his cheek. “Let them. We will know the truth and that will be enough.”
Will it?
It will be. It is.
And so he watches – tears in his eyes, he’ll admit proudly – as you break open the pomegranate, juice staining your hands blood red. You pluck six little seeds from the innards, and you lay them on your tongue. With your hands in his, you crush the seeds beneath your teeth, and bind yourself to him.
It’s like a lungful of air after a year of suffocation. When he kisses you he tastes sweetness and freedom and the bitterness of circumstance – and you pull away, gasping, pupils dilated and chest heaving.
“Take me to our marriage bed,” you whisper against his lips, “and make love to me.”
And he does; pulls your light-coloured vestments off of your body and lets them pile on the floor, marvels the bumps and lumps and womanly curves you’ve been blessed with. Takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks and nibbles until you’re crying out, dewy and sticky between your legs. And then he presses you to black silk, pushes his hardness into you, feels your power seeping into his.
(And it’s overwhelming, really, every cell and nerve in his body buzzing and thrumming with pleasure, every sense magnified and heightened. Two souls becoming one.)
He watches your eyes roll back with his mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed, one hand digging into your hips and the other pressed against that bud at the apex of your thighs. You tighten and tighten and fall over the edge, whines and moans and whimpers music to his ears – and when he cums, he cums deep, hips flush against yours and arms cradling your head.
He lays atop you and pants. And then he raises his head, languidly places a kiss on your lips.
“My beautiful wife,” he coos, “My Persephone.”
His springtime queen.
“My Hades,” you whisper back, grinning, eyes half-lidded. “My James.”
(He hardens inside you – the game starts again.)