Page 142 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“You once told me I was more than the goddess of spring. More than what mortals and gods believed me to be. That I was meant for something greater, something deeper. Even when I could not yet see it, could not yet name it.”
He remembered. She’d stood barefoot in his stables, eyes wide as she beheld Alastor for the first time.
His arms crossed tightly, guarding the last vestiges of resistance. “I would’ve said anything to keep you from climbing onto Alastor’s back,” he muttered gruffly.
Her lips curved, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth, but her gaze stayed on his, solemn and steady. “But you are more than I understood before I came to you,” she said. “You bring justice, peace. Mercy to those denied it in life, to those left broken by the world above.”
She lifted her hand, flattening it over his heart. Her touch bled into him, seeping past the cold barricades he’d built around himself long ago.
“Do not turn from them, Hades,” she pleaded. “Do not forsake them.”
Then softer still—
“Please.”
Her words soaked into him like cleansing rain, and sherose onto her toes, brushing her lips against his. It was soft, chaste. But it burned through him all the same.
When she pulled back, her eyes blazed with the fierce light of spring’s fury. “I do not fear Zeus. And I am no daughter of Olympus.” Her voice was a quiet storm. “I am Persephone, the wife of Hades. Queen of the Underworld.”
A deep chord was struck, reverberating in his marrow.
Slowly, he reached out, his fingers slipping into her hair, weaving into the silken strands. He let them twist around his fist, resting it against the nape of her neck.
With a gentle pull, he brought her mouth to his. Not tender, nor careful. A collision of breath and soul. He drank in everything she gave and poured himself out in return, until there was no beginning or end between them.
When he pulled back, their breaths tangled between them, harsh and uneven.
“You are my wife,” he vowed, voice thick. “My queen. Always.”
His thumb traced her cheek in a slow, lingering caress. Then, softer, slower: “But you were born of Olympus, not this kingdom. Mortals cleave to the Underworld in death. But for immortals—”
He stopped. The words hung there, suspended in breath.
“There is only one way,” he finished.
Persephone’s brow knit, but she didn’t falter. “What is it?”
His hand stayed at her nape, fingers curled in her hair, holding her close as his eyes roamed her face.
She was breathtaking. Radiant. Fierce. As untamable as the wild vines of the earth, sweet as their blossoms. The same brilliance that had first ensnared him in a grove of sunlit cypress.
No longer the young goddess who had stumbled into his arms that first day. Now, the queen who had defied all the forces that would pull her away. Who had risked everything to return. To him.
And everything—everything—within the Lord of the Underworld bowed to her.
***
Hades held her hand, guiding her through the shadowed garden. Twilight lingered around them, indigo hues of the coming nightfall.
The flowers bent toward Persephone as she passed, as if whispering secrets to her. In the wake of her bare feet, delicate white crocuses bloomed.
At the edge of the garden, his chariot awaited. Alastor stamped impatiently, smoke blowing from his nostrils. But Hades did not lead her there. Instead, he drew her deeper, toward the garden’s heart.
There, the ancient tree stood, its branches stretching overhead, heavy with crimson fruit.
He stopped beneath its boughs, turning to her. “When I was crowned, your mother rejected my gift in your honor.” He lifted his chin toward the towering tree. “So I planted it here.”
Persephone’s gaze lifted to the branches above, wonder lighting her eyes. “This is the tree you created,” she said breathlessly. “For me.”
