Page 125 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“No one does,” came the stiff reply, barely audible.
She only pressed closer, held him tighter.
After a moment, Hades gently broke her hold, turning to face her. The mask of stone was gone, shattered. His gaze was stripped bare, filled with anguish too vast to contain.
“I cannot give you up, Persephone,” he said hoarsely. “Do not ask it of me.”
The agony in his voice pierced her like an arrow, clean and deep. She stepped into him, folding herself into his arms. He enveloped her in a way that felt like surrender, as if she were the only warmth left in a world gone cold.
“I do not want to leave you,” she breathed into his chest. A truth drawn from her marrow. “But I cannot let this go on when they suffer because of me. I cannot turn from them now.”
He drew back, his expression twisting with pain etched deeply. In the hush that followed, came the sound of something sacred breaking.
“So you will turn from me,” he said quietly.
Her heart splintered. She rose onto her toes, framing his face with her hands. His skin was warm, his jaw clenched tightly beneath her touch.
“No,” she said, fierce—tender. She poured every drop of her will into the word, every measure of the aching, growing warmth that lived inside her for him. “I would choose to find another way. Together.”
Her thumbs brushed over the firm lines of his cheekbones, her eyes holding his. “Help me, husband. Please.”
For a breathless moment, the world held still. The air itself, strained and aching, seemed to hush.
Slowly, his fingers closed over hers.
A spark caught between them—small, steady, and bright as the first light ever born into the dark.
Chapter 47
The current crashed in his ears as Hades stood on the landing above the waterfall, staring out across the chasm to the Styx’s distant bank.
Countless souls clustered, mournful and silent. Ripped from life before their time. The sharp tang of burnt offerings rose on the air, prayers from the world above, soaked in grief and despair.
Behind him, a throb of power announced an arriving presence.
“You sent Hermes for me?” Zeus’s voice was tempered steel.
Hades stood still.
His gaze settled on a boy on the distant riverbank, a golden coin clutched in his small fist. The child’s eyes were wide—the innocence of a life unjustly stolen. So much like that first child.
“When the mortals’ war ends,” Hades said at last, the words low and unforgiving, “she returns to me. Swear it now on the river.”
Surprised silence answered him at first.
Then Zeus’s voice came firmly. “Your wife will return to the Underworld when the war in Troy ends,” he vowed swiftly. “I swear it by the River Styx.”
Only then did Hades turn, fixing Zeus with a flat stare. “Do not forget your oath, brother,” he murmured. “Break it—and Olympus will war with the Underworld next. Even your lightning will falter in that darkness.”
His gaze shifted back to the child, to all others who waited there.
“This I swear by the river.”
Zeus stiffened at the threat. His mouth opened, chest swelling with a reply. But a rare moment of restraint flickered through him, and he paused, thoughtful. Instead, he offered a sharp, wordless nod. The aircracked, and he was gone.
Ice settled in Hades’s chest as he stalked into the temple, his steps echoing hollowly. The corridors were empty. So was their bedchamber.
His gaze turned to the pool. With a thought, the water revealed her. Despite the weight in his chest, his lips tilted as he looked down on her reflection.
