Author's Note: Okay, so, during the time I felt no inspiration to write on The Courtship, I became entranced by the myth of Hades and Persephone, so I decided to write a retelling. The myth is not complete, but if you want me to continue, please tell me!
Persephone dances through the meadow, her unkempt curls streaming out behind her like a russet waterfall; her green eyes alight with the fire of youth.
She throws back her head and sings a prayer, her voice surpassing the calls of songbirds and the gentle gurgle of the stream.
When she laughs, the landscape rejoices, basking itself in her bliss. She never frowns, but if she did, trees would instantly wither, the stream would halt its happy laughter, and the birds would cease their chorus.
She is the very heart and soul of the earth. Her smile is the summer heat, her hair is the autumn leaves; her breath is the dawn of spring.
There is nothing of winter about her.
No, winter is left to those who admire and envy her: the ones who strive after her beauty, her vivacity, her effortless grace, but can never attain it.
Winter is for those who can never escape the blizzard, assaulted on all sides by the spring that will never come.
Persephone knows of winter, but she does not ponder it. Forget the winter! Forget the snow! Forget the moaning tales of loss and sorrow!
Leave winter to Hades.
Yes, she knows of winter, but she does not know that winter is slowly creeping towards her, biding his time to entice and corrupt.
Hades is watching.
He watches with passion in his eye, noting her every movement. He surveys her body with meticulous precision: the firm lines of her shoulders, the curve of her breast, her slim, girlish waist, her flawless legs and delicate feet.
The movements of her hands enrapture him. Every note she sings resonates within him. Her smile demands his kisses. Her eyes beckon him closer, closer…
Yet she is not a temptress, like the women of the underworld. She is innocent, untainted; completely unaware of her own beauty and the power she holds.
Hades is not in love. Love is impossible for a god of his nature. He is cruel, callous; cold. He is death itself: shriveled and broken.
Love is forbidden.
Yet every time this girl glances his way, his nonexistent heart begins to beat. These feelings are torture in its most elegant form.
She begins a new song, every note an arrow aimed for his chest.
He sets his mouth in a grim line and resolves: Persephone will be his, no matter the cost.
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Death's Delight
FantasyPersephone dances through the meadow, her unkempt curls streaming out behind her like a russet waterfall; her green eyes alight with the fire of youth. She throws back her head and sings a prayer, her voice surpassing the calls of songbirds and the...
