Hades continued the game until his body glistened with sweat and the light in the Underworld was fading. He returned to the palace through the garden and found himself choosing flowers that made him think of Persephone either in color or beauty—irises and lilies, aster and bellflower—until he had a substantial bouquet.
He had to admit, until Persephone, he had not paid much attention to flowers, especially these—the ones he’d created via illusion. They were for the pleasure of the souls and staff and only managed to remind him of how he’d been born into this world, the war that followed, and the many dark days after. He built feeble walls around the darkness and decay, and while it looked nice enough, what lay beneath was never far from his mind, and he found himself wondering how he could manage to disclose such things to Persephone. How did one communicate lifetimes of turmoil and strife, mistakes and regrets?
“What are you doing?” Hecate asked.
He had been so lost in thought, he had not sensed her approach. He refocused and continued choosing flowers. “What does it look like?”
“Like you are about to add datura to your bouquet,” she said, and Hades’s hand hesitated over the white, trumpet-like flower. “It’s a nasty nightshade. Best leave it be.”
He straightened and turned to face the witch goddess.
“I’m ridiculous,” he said.
“You are ridiculous often,” Hecate said. “But you are not ridiculous for picking flowers for your lady love, if that is what you are insinuating.”
Hades wasn’t certain. He wasn’t even sure why he’d begun this. Why would the Goddess of Spring want a bunch of soon-to-be-dead flowers?
“I am going to fuck this up,” he said.
He often shared his doubts with Hecate, and while he knew they were safe with the goddess, her responses were not always comforting.
“Probably,” she said. “But Persephone is forgiving. You’ll remember that when you need to forgive her, won’t you?”
Hades’s brows rose. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“I always know something you don’t,” she replied. “And yet you still do not listen to me. You’ll always need to be forgiving, but especially with Persephone, who has yet to learn the cruelty of the world.”
Hades frowned. “I’d protect her from it if she’d let me.”
“You can’t,” Hecate said. “Nor should you. How else do you expect her to become a goddess otherwise?”
Is that what it takes to embrace divinity? Hades thought. Strife? He supposed it was true of every god he knew. Despite the differences among the Olympians, one thing always united them, and that was the shared trauma of war.
Hecate moved to his side and instructed, “Choose more greenery and those lilies that have yet to bloom.”
Hades paused for only a brief moment before doing as she instructed, noting that Hecate picked the datura.
“I thought you said that was poisonous,” Hades said, eyeing it in her hands.
“It is,” she replied and continued to pick the deceptive flower, root intact.
* * *
They spent a few more minutes in the garden before heading inside, where Persephone’s voice echoed in the hallway.
“Good boys!” she said, and they found her kneeling on the ground, rotating between rubbing Orthrus’s belly, Typhon’s neck, and Cerberus’s ear.
“Spoiled beasts,” Hecate chided.
“They are not spoiled. You’re not spoiled, are you?” Persephone asked. They preened beneath her hands, and Hades did not blame them. He liked being fawned over by her too. “You are all very good boys.”
She finally looked up and seemed to realize that he was also present. Her smile faltered, but only for a moment. She rose to her feet and spoke shyly.
“Hi.”
Hades was amused but no less flustered by her. He liked seeing her so at home in his realm. It made him feel like this could last an eternity.
Her eyes darted to the flowers in his hand. For a moment, he forgot he was holding them.
He cleared his throat and held them out. “I…picked these for you.”
Persephone smiled sheepishly and took them. “They are beautiful, Hades.”
There was a brief moment of strained silence, and Hecate cleared her throat. “Let’s go, beasts. The lovers would like time alone. Not in the dining room, please.”
The Goddess of Witchcraft turned and wandered down the palace hallway with the dogs in tow.
Persephone held Hades’s gaze. “What are these for?”
Hades rubbed the back of his neck. “I just thought you might like them.”
“I love them,” she said. “Thank you.”
There was a beat of silence, and Hades wondered why things felt so awkward between them. Had it been the flowers? Or did it have something to do with their earlier conversation? Was Persephone expecting him to dive into an explanation of his past and present?
“How was work?” he asked, disliking the doubt that twisted through him when she hesitated.
“Fine,” she answered quickly.
“Sounds frustrating,” he observed.
“I don’t want to talk about work,” she said, fixating on one of the lilies, drawing her finger along one of the petals.
Hades frowned. This had already gotten off to a bad start. “Then we won’t,” he said, and she looked at him over the bouquet.
“You said you took my picture,” she hedged. “Do you have a camera?”
“I do,” he said, and he couldn’t quite place how he felt about sharing it and its contents. Perhaps the closest feeling to describing it was embarrassment, though he also felt a little shameful. He should want to share this with Persephone. He supposed his only fear was what she would think, as always.
“Do you take pictures often?”
“Occasionally. When I find something worth immortalizing.”
Her lips curled. “But you are immortal.”
“I am, but moments are not. They are fleeting.”
“Can I see?” she asked.
“Of course,” he found himself saying, despite his concerns, and led her to his office.
“When did you begin this hobby?” Persephone asked as he made his way behind the desk.
“Years ago,” he said. “The technology of mortals never ceases to amaze me.”
And terrify him, if he were being honest.