Death's Delight

The Struggle

Author's Note: Probably the most disturbing chapter so far, yet so much fun to write! :D We writers are a very psychotic crew. :P

Hades drives his chariot through the dark gates of his fortress, glancing back at the girl. Persephone still unwillingly grasps him, and as she surveys his home, the fear in her eyes reaches its peak.

The castle of Hades towers far above the other structures of the underworld, an infinitely harsh citadel, the architecture composed of nothing but cold obsidian, sharp angles, and uneven spikes. Gargoyles perch on the jagged ledges, their faces contorted in screams of silent agony.

One particular statue seems almost to move – to tilt its head and look straight into Persephone’s eyes.

A cold bolt of terror shoots into her stomach, and as she resists the urge to bury her face in Hades’ neck, the complete helplessness of her condition suddenly dawns on her. Her only protector is her predator; her surroundings, however, are even more dejected.

A hopeless tear rolls down her cheek and steams as it hits the bottom of the chariot.

Instantly, she is ashamed of her weakness. She will not submit to despair! Tears are for cowards and weaklings, and loss of spirit comes only to the fainthearted. She forces the fear out of her conciousness, bolstered by the thought of defiance.

When Hades halts the chariot, steps down, and offers her his hand, she pushes it away and jumps onto the ground herself. His brow furrows at her rebellion, but he dismisses it quickly and allows her to follow him inside.

The interior of Hades’ mansion is ruthless in its simplicity. They first enter the throne room, with his smoky throne on a raised dais in the center. Hades snaps his fingers, and another throne sprouts up next to his.

Persephone’s throne is constructed of thousands of silver wires braided and woven together to form a delicate chair. Twisted metal flowers adorn the intricate pattern; a faint, dead, shadow of her living meadow.

But however lifeless the throne might be, it still possesses its own macabre sort of beauty, and for a moment Persephone is taken aback by the artful craftsmanship.

She glances over at Hades, who gives a soft smile. “There is an art in death that nobody truly grasps,” he murmurs, as if reading her thoughts.

She turns her face away from his steady gaze, because the look in his eyes frightens her more than anything.

It is not a harsh, cold, or sardonic look. As much as she hates those gazes, they are at least clear to her. They are the apparent enemy, the obvious opposition. When she feels his harshness, she knows how to react.

There is no harshness now. Now there is only pure, unadulterated, adoration.

“Persephone,” he addresses her gently.  “You do not speak. Why?”

“Do you command me to speak to my captor?”

“No, I do not command it. But I would expect it. To my knowledge, you have never been without words.”

He reaches out and brushes her arm, smiling with no hint of deception.

“And you are not without inconsistency,” she snaps, and slaps his hand away. She strives to keep her voice distant, but warmth creeps into her tone nonetheless. “On the chariot ride, you scorned me. This tenderness you show now may well be a ruse.”

Hades draws back with a new expression – pain, the most disconcerting emotion of all. Thankfully, it is quickly replaced with anger. He strides over to her throne and kicks it down, and then turns to her, his fists clenched.

“If you cannot be broken with kindness, fine!” His voice is level, but it echoes and bellows throughout his realm. “Because I will break you, Persephone.” He advances upon her, and she backs against the wall. He descends into a raspy, threatening whisper, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Through kindness or cruelty, it makes no difference.”

Her heartbeat quickens in fear, but with a tremendous effort, she raises her head, forcing him to take a step back. “I know what you want, Hades. You want my spirit, but you cannot attain it. You will never attain it. You know this, and it drives you mad.”

He takes hold of her elbow and slams her against the wall. Her chest heaves with terror; his, with rage. She clenches her teeth in pain, but continues to taunt him: “You have taken my innocence, but that is all you can do. Your physical power means nothing over me if you cannot trap my soul.”

“Silence!” he screams. He puts his hand over her mouth and shoves her head back, but her defiant eyes continue to mock him.

His power is fleeting, and he must regain it.

He knows exactly how.

He uncovers her mouth and cuts off her words with a hungry kiss. His body presses against hers, completely immobilizing her.

He relishes the helpless taste of her lips; savors her futile struggle. He doesn’t cease the kiss until she’s gone limp underneath him, and when he pulls away, her eyes are closed and her mouth is bleeding.

He banishes every possible hint of remorse with a brutal laugh of triumph, and then he summons a cage.