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Chapter Text

Sharp stones tear the skin of your bare feet, but still, you keep running as fast as you can. The thin, flowy silk of your white dress turns ashen, sullied with dust and smoke from the deepest pits of hell. Your heartbeat drums wildly in your ears, almost as loud as the hooves of four midnight-black steeds galloping behind you. There is something wet trailing down your cheeks, and you wonder if the Thunderer has sent a storm to extinguish the scorching flames, but it’s your tears, involuntarily escaping from the corners of your eyes.


You cry and plead for help desperately — your mother, the Thunderer, anyone who listens, but it is too late. Your next scream dies on your lips as a ruthless hand wraps around your arm and hoists you up right into a chariot, where you are trapped in the suffocating grasp of your captor, who winds his thick arm around your waist to keep you from falling or jumping out. 


With eyes wide in fear, you lift your gaze upon his face, only to be confronted with a black, opaque visor of an ornate helmet that conceals his features completely. A long cloak drapes down from his broad shoulders and flutters in the wind. Silver cuirass stretches over his wide chest, and his arms and legs are clad in more plates of heavy armor and a thick, dark cloth; however, you can feel his muscles flex with his every calm and calculated move underneath all those layers. The man's imposing stature towers above you, displaying power not inherent in a mere mortal.


You know him. You know who he is. 


The Receiver of Many. The Rich One. The Unseen.


Recognizing him somehow plucks up your courage, and, which is more important in your current predicament, angers you. You start to beat him with your fists, striking as far as you can reach but hitting only his armor's hard, cold surface.


"Let me go!" you shriek in fury, writhing helplessly against his massive frame like a fly caught in a spider’s web.


Your struggles rouse no reaction from him. He pulls on the reins and barks an order to his horses in an ancient language you don’t understand. His deep voice shakes the earth; the powerful rumble makes you quiver, but the horses whinny obediently, their eyes glowing crimson red at the sound of their master's command. To your uttermost horror, the chariot turns sharply around.


He’s going to take you down with him.


"No! Please, please—let go of me!" Your cries are filled with panic as the smoke half-blinds you and scratches your throat with each inhale. "Help! Mother, help me!"


Ferociously, you thrash against his firm body in your last attempt to free yourself. Your kidnapper grunts deeply in annoyance, and then he effortlessly catches your wrist as soon as you swing your hand to strike him again, this time aiming at his covered jaw. 


"Quiet, girl!" he hisses at you, squeezing your wrist firmly in warning. You blink at him through your tears and shiver as he glares down at you, and although you can't see his eyes, his stare paralyzes you, freezes you in your spot with its intensity and impassiveness.


Death knows no mercy.


"Please..." you croak between hiccuping sobs as his broad palm keeps clutching your forearm like a heavy shackle.


Heat from the fire rises rapidly the closer you get to the gaping rift in the earth, making you dizzy; parched like a flower burned by too-strong sunrays. Unsurprisingly, it does not affect him. He yanks you closer to his hulking frame and urges the demonic steeds faster with another curt command. Before your final shout for help rattles from your scratchy throat, the chariot plummets down the rift, and impenetrable darkness swallows you whole.


You cling to the armor of the man who took you forcefully from your home, numbed by the terror that comes into your view. The cacophony of thousands of screams deafens you, and then a horrid stench of omnipresent decay and death fills your nose. A wide river streams on your right, its murky waters ripple with the movements of the mortal souls. There are countless of them, their decomposing limbs reaching your way while you pass them by. On your left, you can hear the moans and laments of the sinners being whipped and tortured for their crimes. A flock of screeching harpies flies over you, cackling loudly among themselves.


You can't scream. You can't even breathe. As your knees give out under you, the last thing you feel is that you're being lifted into your abductor's strong arms before you finally lose consciousness.

Chapter Text

As dusk settles in, the sky is painted in soft shades of pink and blue, casting a gentle glow over the world. The air is warm, carrying the scent of blooming roses and sun-soaked earth. It's the evening you’ve been counting down to with eager anticipation — summer solstice, the longest day of the year, which also marks your birthday.


Your friends, the nymphs, have come up with the most unexpected way to celebrate. As you follow their lead, tall grass whispers under your bare feet; however, you can't help but waver over their idea. The stern voice of your mother echoes through your mind.


"What were you thinking, Kore? I’ve told you over a thousand times that you should stay away from the mortals. They act with selfishness, and their words are foul and vain. You must never allow them to see you, let alone talk to you!"


Oh, your mother…


Her sharp, storm-grey eyes have anxiously followed your every step since you were born. You understand her concerns, for you are her only child. She guards you day and night like the most precious flower, regarding you as one, a fragile, weak being. But even a delicate flower needs some space to grow so she can bloom eventually. And since you'll turn eighteen this evening right before midnight, the moment you reach your maturity will pinpoint your independence.


You are going to bloom freely.


So here you are, heading to the bonfire festivities of mortal men and women, who are most likely heavily intoxicated with sweet wine and weary from their joyful dance by now. Surely, the heavy fog of their drunkenness will add to the protective veil that confuses human sight. You were well acquainted with the mechanics of this simple trick; no one from the mortal world can see you unless you want them to.


You would appear to them as an optical illusion, a mirage.


Nevertheless, humans fascinate you. They spend their relatively short lives together, caring for each other on the grounds of a family bond or a strange sentiment they call love. From what you have gathered, love usually occurs between two people, most commonly a woman and a man. But neither was that a rule — there were times when love was only expressed in a one-sided manner. And, by the Stars, how oddly love made people act! One would think that those afflicted by it have completely lost their minds. Yet, as you have discovered after long hours of observing humans, love can be very pleasant. You couldn't exactly understand why, and when you asked your mother about it, she rebuffed your question with a contemptuous sneer.


"Love? It turns people into fools, helps to start wars, and brings only misery."


Your mother's disdain confuses you greatly, because you love her. You love the nymphs as your friends and adore all your flowers. Does that make you foolish?


For deep down, in the deepest marrow of your bones, you feel this isn't the kind of love your mother was talking about...


A joyful warble of a familiar voice rouses you from your contemplations. Ligeia, one of the nymphs, joins you and takes you by the hand with a wide smile. You realize you've fallen quite far behind the group of your companions.


"Oh, how excited I am for you, Kore! Just wait until you see the fire! All the men and even some women jump over the flames unless they burn too high and strong."


You force yourself to match her smile with your own. "Don't talk nonsense, Ligeia! Did you or any of your sisters try?"


The sprite shakes her head and laughs melodically, the sound reminding you of a fresh, burbling spring. "No, but we always join the dance." Her blue eyes turn mischievous as she speaks. "The mortals, the men especially, never notice a thing. They believe they dance with another human girl. You should try it — there is no harm in fun."


She drags you behind her through the growth of young beech trees, their leaves fluttering in the balmy evening breeze. The deeper you disappear into the woods, the more distinct the sound of human laughter and the other mirth of the festival becomes. All this is accompanied by the notes of flutes and the rhythmic rumbling of drums. The warm glow of the fire begins to flicker between the tree trunks, and you unconsciously tighten your hold on the nymph's hand.


Ligeia leads you to the nearby elder thicket, where the rest of the group waits for you both. The sweet, heady smell of the elder's delicate blossoms makes you dizzy, pleasantly so. Raidne, with her long raven hair flowing down to her upper legs, places a wreath of wild roses and crimson poppies on your head, and Himerope announces in a dulcet voice as she hands you a cup filled with wine:


"Best wishes to you, Kore. May your happiness and beauty last forever!"


You raise the cup with a hushed ‘thank you’ and down its contents in one go. The wine colors your cheeks pink and quiets your unease by singing warmly in your veins.


Then, you step out from the hideaway behind the trees.


At first, everything is overwhelming for you: the loud noises, the commotion, the people. Young men and maidens equally, wearing white robes and floral wreaths on their heads, indulge in exuberant fun, and their excitement enthralls you. Dancing around the glowing bonfire, they usually form pairs before reaching for another partner or stepping aside to catch their breath or quench their thirst.


Time flies quickly with the help provided by the sweet wine. Before you know it, a third half-full cup is in your hand, and you finally find the courage to join the dance. In the beginning, you stay by the side while observing the bolder nymphs, who have already chosen their dance partners, but then a young man with bright eyes and a wide smile takes your hand and pulls you into the circle. You barely manage to hand your drink to your nearest friend before you start to dance around the bonfire.


The scarlet flames in the center of the forest clearing dance as wildly and freely as you do. Sweat pearls at your temples, and the lavender fabric of your dress flows around you while you pass from one arm to another. You feel free as a bird, a shy nightingale separating from its mother's nest, until you bump into someone, which makes you lose your balance and stop abruptly in your movement. 


The wide eyes of a maiden not much older than you find your confused glare. She has jasmine blossoms woven in her chestnut hair, her pristine dress exposing frail, tanned shoulders. However, something strange in her gaze reminds you of a panicked little rabbit seeking shelter from a wolf’s deadly maw. The girl flinches visibly when you frown at her disconcerted expression, but then leaves without a word, disappearing into the surrounding forest. 


A few moments later, a fair-haired young man stalks behind her like a shadow.


An uncanny sensation stirs in your gut as you make your hasty decision. You leave the celebration, not sparing another second to inform your friends about your departure, and follow the mortals through the maze of trees.


You weren't sure what made you pursue the young couple. Your feet move on their own accord, almost as if an invisible thread of the Fates marks your path. With a sudden feeling of unease, you fold your arms across your chest, squeezing your shoulders to hearten yourself. The night air is cool this far from the bonfire, and the forest swallows the last remnants of the warm glow. Not even the light of the strongest stars permeates the thick branches above. Still, you walk onwards and try not to think about how long it's been since you left the festival. It could be mere minutes, but it feels like hours to you. 


Finally, you hear voices behind the hazel trees in front of you; one soft and feminine, the other deep and gruff. As you peek through the leaves, the softer voice pleads waveringly: "Cassius, please... I promise you that it's all a pretense."


The pale shine of the stars shows you a small but lovely glade overgrown with long grass and surrounded by tall, black shapes of ancient alders. The mortals are standing face to face, not quite in an embrace, yet still holding each other; the girl grips both of the young man's arms like a lifeline. He's cradling her jaw with his fingers, his grasp possessive and tense, as his pale eyes search her face. You notice tears glittering on her cheeks, reminding you of river pearls or morning dew.


"It didn't seem like a pretense to me," he retorts. "You wouldn't even look at me, Viola!" 


"Hector would see..." she starts meekly, and the man, Cassius, laughs bitterly.


"Let him see. Let them all see. I'm not ashamed to show my love!" The girl gasps as he sinks to his knees and pulls her forcibly into him, leaning his head against the softness of her abdomen. "You belong to me in the eyes of the gods, my sweet Viola. Or have you already forgotten?" 


A frown of confusion passes over your brow while you watch the curious scene before you. You fail to understand why anyone would feel embarrassed about being in love. Something just isn't right, and you know it. You sense it in the back of your mind, but you can't do anything about it because your knowledge of human nature is frustratingly limited. You don't see through their little games of charades, yet you still watch, hypnotized by the conflict of the two mortal lovers.


"That was only once," Viola whispers while threading her slim fingers through the man's flaxen hair. "I haven't forgotten nor stopped thinking about you, about us, but..." 


"But?" repeats Cassius coldly as he glares up at her face and seizes her shaking hands in his. 


"But my father already made the wedding arrangements, my love. In a fortnight, I shall be wed to Hector." Her voice is trembling, and more tears stain her cheeks before she finds the courage to continue. "I love you more than my life, Cassius. However, some things cannot be resolved and—"

A small whimper escapes Viola's lips when Cassius yanks her by her wrists until she kneels beside him. He pulls her into him, seemingly driven not by anger but desperation, and kisses her with a hunger that makes you look away in abashment. His palms wander across her pliant body, possessively caressing every curve before his left hand disappears under the skirt of her dress. You hastily avert your gaze with burning cheeks, while she sucks in a sharp breath that morphs into a sigh, to which the man chuckles huskily. When he speaks, it's partially muffled and almost too quiet for you to hear.


"You love me?" 


"Yes," Viola utters between high-pitched gasps as Cassius coos to her, consoling her with stolen kisses and whispered words. His arms are wound tightly around her quivering shoulders. When you look back, her head rests on his heaving chest. You think the quarrel is over between them, and you slowly make ready to leave, until a flash of steel gleams in the pale starlight. 


You forcefully swallow the scream of terror that rattles from your throat as you watch Cassius pull out a bloodied blade from between Viola's ribs. The girl's eyes are round with shock as she gurgles an unintelligible, haunting sound, and crimson pours from her mouth. Her small hands blindly reach for her treacherous lover but fall limply into her lap as her body slumps on the grass like a lifeless puppet with cut-off strings. You want to shout and attack the man, the murderer, fight him tooth and nail with all your might, but the shock has paralyzed you. Frozen on the spot, you watch him lean over the dying girl and kiss her on the forehead gently.


"My sweet Viola, I love you more than you can imagine," Cassius rasps into the suffocating silence, disturbed only by the girl’s wet gasps. "But I’d rather see you dead than in another man’s arms."


Deceitful tears gleam on his pale cheeks as he stands and flees the glade in haste.


That's when you finally move. 


You stumble through the tall grass to the girl's body. Her white dress glows in the dark, her curled-up form resembling a dead swan that has been shot down from the heavens. As you fall to your knees beside her, you find that the jasmine blossoms in her hair have started to wither. A stain of red forms under her shakily heaving breast, soaking the once unsullied fabric with the sad reminder of her mortal frailty. 


"Hey," you whisper, and her eyes, round with fear and glassy with unshed tears, snap to yours. "It's going to be alright. You're going to be alright."


Clasping one of her clammy palms, you note that her skin is slowly growing cold. Your heartbeat pounds wildly in your chest when you cover the wound with your free hand, which makes her cry out in pain. You try to mollify the girl, although your body vibrates with dread, with trepidation.


Many gifts accompany your divinity; you’ll never grow old, get sick, or meet your demise like mortals. But the gift that scares and fascinates you the most is the power of life. You still don't understand the possibilities or limits of this peculiar ability you've seemed to inherit, but you fear it for the sacred line between life and death. At the age of five, you used your powers intentionally when the late frosts of May destroyed your favorite flower in your mother's garden. The transfer of life energy had burned you and hurt you like an invisible blade slicing through your palm. You remember how frightened you were to use it again. Even though you've finessed your abilities over the years, they still deprive you of physical strength and paralyze you with overwhelming nausea. 


You can return the faded blossoms to their former beauty. Fix a red-breasted robin's broken wing. Breathe new life into a dead butterfly's body.


Never before have you attempted to resurrect a human being to life.


"I'll help you," you hear yourself say quietly. "Just keep your eyes open, Viola. Keep looking at me." 


The girl opens her mouth but fails to formulate words, so she nods weakly. You furrow your brow in concentration as you connect your mind to the life energy surrounding you: the sap pulsing underneath the bark of the surrounding trees, the fertile soil beneath you, the blood coursing through the bodies of sleeping birds. You allow it to flow through you, and every nerve in your body lights with immense power. The prickling of points and needles grows in intensity, morphing into a painful throb concentrated mainly behind your eyes and somewhere inside the cage of your ribs. White spots dance in your vision, and you exhale shakily to suppress your whimpers while involuntary tears stream down your cheeks.


It is happening.


A surge of invisible force makes your back arch, and you scream to the skies with agony. You feel like a wildfire crawls beneath your skin, burning you from within. Blood roars in your ears, silencing the world around you completely, and after what seems like an eternity, you finally come around. It takes a while for your eyes to regain focus as you blink away the tears, trying to make out shapes in the dead of the night.


When you look down at the mortal girl lying on the ground beside you, her eyes are trained on you, but they're lifeless, empty. Void of her soul, which slipped through her enlarged, motionless pupils and set off to the Underworld. However, the small jasmine blossoms in her hair look freshly bloomed.


Bile rises in your throat.


You have failed.


With a shaky hand, you close her eyes, then place her cold hands neatly on her stomach. You are so angry with yourself. The mortal girl could have lived if you weren't so weak. If only you had learned how to use your powers properly.


Fresh tears sting in your eyes as you rise from your knees with a slight sway, still dizzy from the failed display of your unfortunate gift.


Suddenly, the hairs on your nape stand up while a suffocating sense of dread clenches your insides like an iron fist. You glance over your shoulder, only to be met with impenetrable shadows under the slumbering trees. But the ink-black shadows stare right back at you.


Something, someone is watching you.


Growing up, you'd often encounter the more sinister side of your mother's realm; larger creatures slaying the smaller and feeding on their carcasses. The probability of survival depends on how high up the food chain they are. 


And right now, you are being the one hunted. You sense the danger, the threat of whoever or whichever creature lurking in the dark poses.


So you run like the prey you've become. 


You flee from the glade and dash blindly through the dense forest while stumbling on exposed roots and colliding into tree trunks. You don't know which way you're running; your only instinct is to get away as far and as quickly as possible. The dull shine of stars doesn't reach below the age-old branches, and you desperately call for Artemis in your mind to grant you one single beam of her moonlight to guide you, although you doubt she can hear you.


Twigs scratch at your skin and tear at your dress like razor-sharp claws — glittering ichor pours from your small wounds, but you choose to ignore their sting. There is no racket behind you — no cracking of branches or roots being torn from the soil. You only hear your breath, which comes ragged and panicked as more tears escape the corners of your eyes, and you run, run, run. 


Your bare feet slip on the dead leaves, and you tumble down what seems to be a steep slope leading into a ravine. Your yelp echoes among the surrounding trees, but even before you can brace yourself for the long fall, a hand grasps your wrist and pulls you up. In a split second, you find yourself pressed against a cold surface that moves with long inhales and heavy exhales. Then, just as you decide to scream again, another hand covers your mouth.

The palm of your captor is huge, its thumb and index finger touching the opposite sides of your jaw; it could crush your skull with a mere squeeze. Clad in leather, the hand presumably belongs to a man, which makes you struggle against the firm grip even more ferociously. 


Who is he? What does he want? 


Gods, something is terribly, terribly wrong. His presence makes your skin crawl, and a sudden rush of cold causes you to shiver in his hold. The shadows around you grow darker as a low, rumbling baritone chides: "Easy now. There's no point in screaming." 


His voice. Soft and hard at the same time, the ditochomy between a smooth glide of velvet and a gravelly harshness. You don't know if you want to recoil with fear or relax in his clutches in quiet submission.


To your great surprise, the force of his hands holding you to him suddenly eases off, so you push yourself away in an instant, stumbling on your tired feet. Spinning around, you're finally standing face-to-face with him.


Silver glints in the faint moonlight, and a black cape slowly sways with the weak night breeze. He's tall, taller than mortal men, and broader, too. Not an inch of his skin is visible; his powerful limbs and wide torso are covered with a dark cloth and encased in heavy armor. And instead of his face, your terrified gaze is met with an obsidian visor of a sharp-edged mask. You watch him slowly move the cape out of the way and close his hand around a hilt at his belt — you assume it’s a sword, although you can’t see its blade. Stepping back in alarm, you bump into the hard bark of a contorted oak tree behind you. When he speaks again, you shiver at his cold, demanding tone:


"Tell me, little one… Who are you?"

Chapter Text

Mortals like to test their limits. They find great fondness in trying how far they can get beyond the borders that mark the forbidden or the unknown. Naturally, some try to fool death in pursuit of immortality. Zeus tasked him to find and slay them with his dark sword, condemning them to eternal suffering on the plains of Tartarus. Everyone shivers, grovels at the sound of his name, which is passed around in hushed whispers.


For he is Hades, the King of the Underworld and the General of the Undead Army.


However, he feels like Zeus's hound, trained to salivate at the occurrence of the highest mortal sin — when humans strive to rival the Gods.


What makes this predicament even worse is that his urges, the compulsive tendencies to hunt the sinners down, are unbearable, like an itch that needs to be scratched — all enhanced by the frightful power of the dark sword he’d gotten to wield as a status of his designation as the Underworld’s ruler. On the night of the summer solstice, which is believed to be magical by the mortals, the urge was one of the strongest he’s ever experienced. His stunned roar echoes from the black marble walls of his palace. He falls to his knees as a violent convulsion passes through his body like a lightning bolt. Rage ignites the fire in his veins, making him grit his teeth, his lips furling under his helmet while he pants like a wounded beast.


Who dares to challenge Death?


The power of his dark sword allows him to materialize wherever he wishes. He appears in the middle of a lush forest in a shapeless whirl of smoke and shadows. His eyes are accustomed to the omnipresent darkness of his realm, making his vision perfect even during the deepest night, especially in this hour — the time between the dog and the wolf, when no one can recognize a friend from a foe. Right in front of him, in the center of a small glade, he sees a woman kneeling above a motionless body.


No, not a woman — a girl.


She’s gasping, weeping quietly like a helpless child, quietly mourning over the other maiden who’s no longer among the living. Her lavender dress clings to her frail body, which is quivering with her muffled sobs, and her face is hidden from him behind a long curtain of her wild hair. The fair skin of her slender arms glows under the faint starlight as she leans over the corpse and gently closes its sightless eyes.
 

Is she the culprit who violated the rules?


Suddenly, the girl turns in his direction as if she could sense his presence lurking in the darkness, her wide eyes filled with tears and terror. He catches a glimpse of her delicate features before she starts running. He bites back a low, displeased sound that rises from the depths of his chest but swiftly follows the girl in her tracks, trailing behind her like the hound he is. Soon, he's hot on her heels, his long strides determined and quiet owing to the shadows that cling to him, harnessing his power and cocooning his every move, making him the perfect predator.


The girl is fast, but the oppressive, blinding darkness of the deep forest works to her disadvantage. Still, she resembles a doe in her agile and graceful run. Her dress floats with her movement, creating a perfect illusion of a violet-hued mist following her every step. In her haste, she slips on the dry foliage covering the forest ground with a surprised shout. But he’s got close enough, and with three final steps, he's right behind her and able to catch her before she rolls down the steep hill below them.


His gloved hand circles her thin wrist and yanks her up easily. The girl stumbles, and in her momentum, she falls right into his arms. As if capturing her couldn't be easier. He smothers her voice with his palm before she can let out another distressed sound.


She's so petite, barely reaching the height of his shoulders with the top of her head, reminding him of a tiny, helpless bird as she fights against his hold. When he finally speaks to her, she trembles noticeably. Under his fingertips, which rest below the delicate hinge of her jaw, thrums wildly her rapid heartbeat. He doesn't feel her skin through the barrier of his gloves; however, he notes it's her radiant and pleasant warmth that seeps through the leather. Then, a sweet scent fills his nose, flowing teasingly past the metal of his helmet.


The girl smells like flowers, like spring and sunshine on a lovely day.


It makes him freeze in shock immediately. He can't remember the last time he'd paid attention to something so trivial, so utterly mortal as the smell of springtime. The pervasive stench of decay, smoke, and brimstone became so natural to him after the eons of walking the scorched plains of the Underworld that he doesn't notice it anymore. But her scent brings him somewhere he wasn’t aware of remembering. It’s almost as if it’s taken him back in time to when the wind had swept freely through his hair and the rays of the sun had warmed his skin.


Almost reluctantly, he lets the girl go, and she instantly recoils, trying to get as far from him as possible, only to meet the unyielding bark of an oak with her back. 


Pale moonlight casts on her face, allowing him to study her thoroughly. She shivers under the weight of his gaze, her full bottom lip trembling as stray tears glisten on her cheeks. She's beautiful, almost unnaturally so.


He's accustomed to the ethereal beauty of goddesses like Aphrodite or Hera; their golden, pristine skin and long, luscious hair cascading around their shoulders like liquid bronze. With this girl, it’s like staring into the very core of a newborn star. 


He figures rather quickly that she’s not a mortal. Her creamy skin is covered in tiny scratches from the run in the forest, and they are mostly healed; only stray droplets of gold remain. Ichor. The girl could be a half-breed of a nymph and some careless god, but what puzzles him is the extension of her power. And he can feel it; it radiates from her, making her almost glow under the gentle beams of the moon.

His eyes unwittingly roam her figure. Despite being small and frail, her body looks strong and lithe from healthy daily movement — she proved herself a resilient runner after all. Her small feet are bare and dirty from the mixture of dust and mud. He follows the line of her shapely legs with his gaze, stopping at the gentle swell of her hips and then finally at the small peaks of her breasts. The cold night air, caressing her smooth skin, reveals her puckered nipples, showing perfectly underneath the thin lavender fabric.


He quickly looks up at her face.


She can't be older than eighteen; everything about her, every detail, implies her youth. Her features, unmarred by wrinkles or any other marks of time, are as lovely and delicate as the rest of her: a small, freckled nose, a dainty chin, an elegant arch of perfect eyebrows, and a pink, heart-shaped mouth. She has a wreath of roses and poppies in her tousled hair, and he notes that the petals of the former flower have the same color as her lips. The wild tresses, a golden-brown shade of ripened wheat, reach to her shoulder blades. And her eyes...


A hazel-hued pair with flecks of gold and green stares at him, betraying her vulnerable fear. 


"Tell me, little one… Who are you?"


The girl flinches at the sound of his voice, just as she did before, and keeps eyeing his dark sword, around the hilt of which he clenches his fingers. As she finally finds her voice, she offers a shaky answer.


"N-no one. I'm no one, really..." 

Her voice is deeper than he expected, but sweet and melodic nevertheless. However, her answer doesn’t anger him — it's her cluelessness that makes his nostrils flare behind his mask.


"No one?" he repeats slowly, closing the distance between them in three ground-eating strides. A gasp escapes her pretty mouth while she presses her body into the tree even more desperately as if its bark could envelop and shield her from him.


"And what does a no one in the middle of the forest, in the dead of the night, alone except for a corpse as her company?"


He's mocking her; it's too simple to resist. It's been a while since he had the opportunity to play with his food — he intends to seize this one and enjoy it thoroughly. As she lowers her gaze bashfully, his hand shoots out to firmly grasp her chin, forcing her to face him. The bright, hazel eyes meet his through the barrier of opaque glass in his visor; hers are all doe-like and frightened, his dark and adamant. The tips of his fingers dig into the softness of her cheeks, slightly smushing them, her lips popping open as she makes a little whimper. Her little hands fly to his wrist, curling around his vambrace and pushing against it to no avail.


Fuck, it’ll be such a waste to send a pretty little thing like her to Tartarus.


Still, he ignites his sword, and the sickly pale light from the long, double-edged blade illuminates the lovely face of its next victim. He angles the weapon so it hovers above the ground on his right side; harmless, for now. Relishing the vibration of pure energy from his trusty sword, he searches the girl's face for more tiny reactions he's so easily getting from her.


"I reckon that no one won't be missed on this Earth after what she's done," he hisses gruffly as his patience slowly grows thin. "After violating the law."


"No, please don't hurt me. I had no idea there was a law; you have to trust me! I was there by accident, I swear," she waveringly pleads, fresh tears glistening in her long lashes when she tries to blink them away. "I didn't want to go to the bonfire, but they'd persuade me..."


"Who?"


She flinches at his menacing growl, her lower lip trembling, but resumes with her incoherent story.


"My friends! They wanted my eighteenth birthday to be special. It wasn’t their fault, not at all! Then I followed the mortal girl from there, she looked... She looked afraid. A man also went after her, and they fought over something before..."


The girl falls silent, and her cheeks turn a light shade of pink. She's not making much sense, which he quite expected — it reminds him of childlike ramblings, unintelligible from the state of upset. Suppressing a sigh of frustration, he urges her to continue with a sharp yank of his hand around her jaw. She lurches into him, stabilizing herself with her tiny palm pressed against his chest plate at the last second.


"Before they started to kiss."


The girl squeaks out the sentence, her blush deepening and matching the poppies in her hair, and her look fixed on the ground. A slow grin breaks his usual scowl as amusement bubbles in his chest. Not only is she ignorant, but she's also completely clueless. Getting flustered at the mention of kissing, her innocence makes her the epitome of a pretty little fool. He almost finds it adorable. It wouldn't be a surprise to him if he became acquainted with a virgin, which is indeed a rare phenomenon among the nymphs.


However, ignorance of the law doesn't excuse her.


"You were spying on them, little one." It's not a question; the taunt is sharp and meaningful in his voice as he watches her squirm in red-hot shame.


"I didn't mean to!" the girl cries out angrily, and he sees a flicker of fire in her eyes for the first time since he met her. "He killed her! The man killed the mortal woman!" Bitter teardrops stream down her flushed cheeks as she continues in a broken whisper: "I just wanted to help. I wanted to fix her, just like the flowers..."


As if reviving the dead was as easy as winking for her.


He sheaths the blade into its hilt with a single flick of his wrist, the burned soil and cut-off straws of grass flying around it in a small but violent burst. She barely suppresses her scream and slams her eyes shut in fear, awaiting her imminent demise. As still as a statue, he stares at the girl in utter disbelief while his immortal memory recalls words he'd heard millennia ago for the first time. He recalls the hollow voices of the Moirai, rasping the prodigious message in unison.


On the night of the solstice, she comes of age…


His hand falls from her face, and he already feels how her warmth wanes from the expanse of his gloved palm where he touched her. The girl blinks at him in utter confusion, crossing her arms under her ribs, still in a defensive posture.


"You said you were celebrating your birthday at the bonfire. Have you turned eighteen tonight?"


Her eyes widen almost comically before she gives a curt nod. "I was, I mean — yes, I have."


Her voice drips with confusion and fear. From her obvious discomfort, she starts to fidget under the weight of his gaze. Gods, she's so young compared to him. A flower yet to bloom. A creature uncorrupted by evil and destruction that plagues both men and Gods alike. But who is she? Certainly not one of Zeus's brats, that he would have known by now — their arrogance and pride are similar to their father's. Right before him stands a shy, skittish thing who wouldn't hurt a fly. 


"What is your name?" His question comes out rougher than intended, which makes her flinch, a prevalent reaction since their paths have crossed.


"Why does it—?" she starts bitterly with a frown, but he mercilessly interrupts her.


"Your name, girl!" he growls, irritation sitting heavily on his tongue.


"I-It’s Kore." 


"Kore." Her name involuntarily escapes his mouth, and its meaning has a sweetness akin to nectar. Kore. The Maiden. It suits her perfectly: her looks, dress, voice, and especially her timid demeanor. As pure as the dew on a white lily blossom, her ingenious kindness got her into trouble tonight, and it's certainly going to happen again. A girl like her can be easily manipulated, and someone will take advantage sooner or later. She's tender-hearted, unassuming, and gentle. She embodies everything he is not.


A strange, puzzled look crosses her face when he speaks her name out loud. Her sweet and addictive scent invades his nose and clouds his thinking once more, and he snarls in resentment as he forces himself to step back from her and walk away, finally. Fuck, he has to report to Zeus; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d cleaned the other deities’ mess.

"Wait!" protests the girl, Kore, her voice as soft as a nightingale's song. "You can't just leave!" 


He grunts in disagreement, striding his way between the silent trees. "I most certainly can." 


She follows him like a lost pup, her light steps barely audible behind his back. It almost makes him huff in frustration when he realizes she most definitely won't manage to get out of the deep forest alone. Purposefully, he heads off towards the glade he's found her in, letting her tail him there. He doubts there are creatures more dangerous than him lurking in the darkness, but still doesn't want to take any chances. 


Silly, little girl.


Kore catches up with him when they are almost by the glade's edge. The moonlight here gets stronger as the canopy of the trees above thins out. However, she continues to pester him like a tiresome fledgling.


"You can’t chase me through the forest and then just walk away," she exclaims, and then he feels her small hand on his biceps. He briskly spins around to face her, grabbing her forearm with such force that it causes her to whimper in pain. 


"Listen, girl," he hisses furiously. "There are some things that are not of your concern. If I were you, I'd worry about getting out of this damn forest and staying out of trouble."


A small wrinkle appears above her nose as she eyes him cautiously. "At least tell me who you are..."

"That is not of your concern, either." 


As he pulls back, he once again notices the lack of her warmth on his fingertips. She's far prettier in the brighter shine of the morning stars. A celestial creature of beauty that's not meant for the ordinary world. The girl keeps her gaze fixed on his helmet, and he becomes aware of how vulnerable he suddenly feels in her presence. Almost as if she could see beyond the impenetrable metal of his armor, of his mask. By Tartarus, is she even afraid of him? Most beings, divine or immortal, living or dead, usually avoid barely looking at him, let alone confronting him.


Why should this girl be any different than the rest?


"Please, will you tell me your name?" Kore asks, the pleading and desperation in her sweet voice sending a shiver down his spine. 


His name. He has many of them, one more pompous than the other. Hades, the Unseen. Pluto, the Rich One. Polydectes, the Receiver of Many. For some reason, none of them feels right to be spoken out loud and presented to her.


"Hopefully, we won't have to see each other again, little flower," he rasps, and with a gush of icy wind, cooler than the deathly air from an open tomb, he disappears within the darkness.

The halls of his palace are cold and somber. There's no one here to admire the high walls and ribbed vaults carved from green serpentinite and black marble. No voices, no laughter echo from the lifeless stone. No light permeates through the windows, which are made from pure crystal. The darkness outside the palace pervades its walls, saturating it with bleakness and misery. So it has been and is for all eternity. 


He sits at the ebony table with his legs outstretched and his stare trained into the void. On the desk before him, several scrolls lie scattered around — reports and messages he has yet to answer. However, he can't bring himself to work as a certain girl plagues his thoughts. 


While he absentmindedly taps the desk with the tips of his gloved fingers, the memories of past hours swirl in his head like a turbulent storm. A major part of him despises the girl for her naivety and foolish kindness she displays towards mortals. No one knows better than he does just how cunning, deceitful, and incorrigible people are. The punishment in the fields of Tartarus isn't enough for many of them. Why help them if all they do is take and give nothing back?


He finds her infuriating — her gentle voice, sweet scent, and piercing, hazel eyes. Every little detail drives him mad, infects his very being like a potent venom. The echo of her powerful aura still lingers in the back of his mind and makes itself known, like a rose thorn stuck in his side. He stares at the scrolls and fights the urge to knock them down from the desk and cut the table in two with his dark sword. Frustration crawls beneath his skin, thrums inside him with every beat of his undying heart in the rhythm of her name.


Kore, Kore, Kore.


"You seem irritated, my lord," purrs a silken voice from behind his back. He doesn't need to turn around to face the unexpected intruder.


"Minthe... What do you want?" He wants to sound annoyed, but his tiredness gives him away. A pale hand slides from his pauldron down to his wrist, encased in a heavy vambrace.


"Nothing, my lord," replies the nymph lightly as she steps between his legs and leans gracefully against the table. "The real question is, what do you want. I'm only here to serve." An overwhelming smell of incense and peppermint reaches his nostrils. He reluctantly lifts his eyes to glare at her.


The chthonic nymph is a beauty, one of the loveliest creatures to walk the realm of the Underworld. Her long, chestnut hair falls freely to her waist, and her icy blue eyes watch him with a hint of mischief. Her body is that of a woman, with a generous swell of her hips and a perkiness of her luscious breasts. He's taken her countless times, not that she'd ever minded. His post as a ruler of the dead is an exhausting occupation, mostly free of common bodily pleasures. When he needs his release, she is there for him. There's nothing else to their relationship. He wouldn't call her his lover just as she wouldn't call him her beloved. It's a symbiotic coexistence, perhaps. She's a distraction, a body to warm his bed and a momentary bliss which diverts him from his worries.


"I can tell when you're angry, my lord," she continues with a small smirk. "You always are after those hunts. Was it again another wannabe necromancer who tried to play a God?"


Wearily, he drags his heavy palm up her smooth, ivory thigh. "Don't ask another question," he warns, and she nods obediently.


He stands abruptly, spinning the nymph in his hold and bending her in half against the table. Minthe whimpers weakly at his roughness as he grabs her hips and pushes the light green dress up till it's bunched around her slim waist. His breath sounds heavy and harsh to his ears while he frees himself with no effort, strokes his length several times in his gloved hand, and thrusts into her warm, wet heat. The moment he meets the end of her, he groans deeply, his thumbs digging painfully into the dip above her hipbones. And then he starts to fuck her.


Minthe’s half-naked body writhes underneath his brute force as her pale fingers claw at the ebony desk. Her cheek is smushed against the hard surface, and depraved moans flow freely from her open mouth. He, in contrast, barely makes a sound. Low grunts slip from his throat while he keeps his devastating pace, chasing after his pleasure. He never strips off his armor, nor does he take off his mask. It's been ages since he felt a warm touch upon his bare skin, and he hardly recalls the sensation. These frantic couplings serve only for him to take his edge off, nothing less and nothing more. And right now, he's ravenous for relief. 


After a while, the nymph's cunt bears down onto him as she cries out. His fist slams against the desk next to her face, which is twisted in the throes of pleasure, and with his other hand, he rips himself out of the warmth of Minthe's welcoming body, spilling his seed across the back of her thighs. The last thing he wants is a bastard offspring brought into this wretched realm. With his eyes closed shut, he catches his breath, relishing in the remaining morsels of his climax. However, he cannot help but feel... Unsatisfied?


When he glances down at the nymph, he sees golden tresses of hair instead of chestnut locks, and not blue but hazel eyes watching him from behind the loose strands. He shakes his head to get rid of the illusion, but the girl is still there, smiling at him gently. A familiar scent of warm soil and wild roses fills the vast hall like a breath of fresh air. He knows it's not real. His mind is playing cruel tricks on him, and it's making him want to yell in his white-hot ire. A chant of her name rings out in his thoughts again, relentless and clear as a bell.


Kore, Kore, Kore.