Hades

Before he became the feared King of the Underworld, Hades had been a boy in love.

Not the cold, distant god that mortals would one day fear.

Not the ruler of the dead.

Just a young god who had looked at you once and never truly looked away again.

You were the goddess of luxury and life.

Everything about you seemed touched by sunlight.

Flowers bloomed more brightly when you walked by.

Gold appeared dull beside your smile.

Even the other gods, proud and immortal as they were, couldn't help but turn their heads when you entered a room.

But Hades never loved you because you were beautiful.

He loved you because you laughed at his terrible jokes.

Because you stayed after class to listen to his endless theories about the Underworld.

Because when everyone else saw darkness in him, you saw a home.

You were young.

Too young to understand that gods could love each other so completely that it became terrifying.

Hades loved you with everything he had.

Everything he was.

He learned how to craft jewelry just so he could make pieces worthy of you.

Necklaces of obsidian and gold.

Bracelets set with gemstones he'd stolen from the deepest parts of the earth.

Rings.

Hairpins.

Tiny treasures hidden in velvet boxes.

He wrote you letters even when he had seen you earlier that same day.

Poems.

Songs.

Entire pages describing the exact shade of your eyes at sunset.

The other gods teased him endlessly.

He never cared.

Because you kept every single letter.

Then one day, you stopped answering them.

The curse struck without warning.

One moment, you were walking through the gardens of Olympus.

The next, your skin hardened.

Your breath disappeared.

Your heartbeat stopped.

And before anyone could save you—

You became glass.

Perfect.

Transparent.

Beautiful.

Still.

The healers couldn't break the curse.

The Fates refused to interfere.

The gods called it tragic.

Hades called it impossible.

He carried you home himself.

No one dared stop him.

He placed your glass form in his chambers.

Not in a temple.

Not in a memorial.

Beside his bed.

Where he could see you every morning.

And every night.

Years passed.

He never moved you.

He spoke to you every day.

Read every new book aloud.

Told you about every argument he had with Zeus.

Complained about his work.

Read the old letters he'd written when you were both students.

Sometimes he sang the songs he'd composed for you.

Badly.

He was never very good at singing.

He still wore the ring you'd given him.

The gods pitied him.

He didn't care.

Because to Hades, you weren't gone.

You were waiting.

And he would wait too.

It was during those years that he met Persephone.

She was kind.

Intelligent.

Funny.

She became his friend.

Nothing more.

Because there had never been room in Hades's heart for anyone except you.

And Persephone knew that.

She knew because every conversation somehow led back to you.

Every story began with:

"When she and I were younger..."

Or:

"She loved this flower."

Or:

"I wrote her a song once."

At first, Persephone found it sweet.

Then sad.

Then unbearable.

Because she fell in love with him.

And Hades never noticed.

Not because he was cruel.

Because he was still in love with someone who hadn't spoken in centuries.

The guilt eventually destroyed her.

One evening, she arrived at the Underworld palace.

Hades immediately knew something was wrong.

She was crying.

"I need to tell you something."

He set down the book he'd been reading aloud to you.

"What is it?"

She looked toward your glass form.

And broke.

"It was me."

Silence.

Hades frowned.

"What?"

Her voice shook.

"The curse."

The world stopped.

"I did it."

He stood.

Slowly.

Carefully.

As though sudden movements might shatter reality itself.

"No."

"I was young," she sobbed. "I saw the way you loved her. The way you looked at her. I thought—"

His expression changed.

Not to anger.

Something worse.

Devastation.

"I thought she'd enchanted you," Persephone whispered. "I thought if she disappeared, you'd be free."

The room became deathly silent.

For the first time since becoming King of the Underworld, Hades looked every bit the god mortals feared.

"Free?"

She flinched.

"You thought this made me free?"

He looked at you.

At the statue he'd slept beside for centuries.

The books stacked around your chair.

The jewelry he'd continued making despite knowing you couldn't wear it.

The thousands of letters he'd written after you could no longer answer.

"I died with her."

The words came out quietly.

Which somehow made them worse.

Persephone covered her mouth.

"I know."

"You took centuries from us."

"I know."

"You watched me grieve."

Tears streamed down her face.

"I know."

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, she thought he might kill her.

Instead, he opened them again.

And all she saw was exhaustion.

"Can you undo it?"

She nodded.

"Yes."

The answer came so quickly that he nearly collapsed.

All these years.

All these years.

"Then come."

His voice cracked.

Not with rage.

With hope.

The most dangerous emotion of all.

He led her through the palace.

Past halls lined with your portraits.

Past rooms filled with gifts he'd bought you over the centuries.

Past gardens planted entirely with your favorite flowers.

Until they reached his chambers.

Your chambers.

Because he had never really separated the two.

You stood where you had always stood.

Beautiful.

Silent.

Waiting.

Persephone looked at the glass figure.

Then at Hades.

And for the first time, she truly understood.

He hadn't been obsessed.

He hadn't been bewitched.

He hadn't failed to move on.

He had simply loved someone so completely that even time itself had failed to convince him to stop.

Hades walked to your side.

He reached out.

Placed a trembling hand against your glass fingers.

And after centuries of speaking to someone who could never answer—

He whispered:

"My love."

His voice broke.

"I brought someone who can bring you home."

"Come back to me."