"I am only my own-
half blooming creation,
half blazing hellfire."
Some romances are legendary.
<<A retelling of the myth of Hades and Persephone>>
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Persephone gazed into the field of flowers, the wind rustling the tall stems back and forth languidly like an ocean pulling at its shore. The sky was clear and bright blue, the sun hanging at its peak before starting its descent into the horizon. Birds swooped in the air, their chirps a sweet melody. It was a perfect summer day.
Just like every other day.
She bent down and stroked her finger against a yellow buttercup nestled deep under the throng of flowers. Remnants of morning dew still clung to the curve of the petals, dripping down into the grass like golden honey. She rubbed the moisture between her fingers and then pressed them against her cheek. She hummed pleasantly at the feeling of the cool dew against her skin. Persephone stood there for a long while and watched the sun dry her skin once again.
She missed the cold bite of the water against her skin. Throwing a glance to the bright sky, Persephone thought. She thought of clouds rimmed with black ash, swallowing the sun up and snaking across the heavens in inky tendrils. She thought of clouds showering the earth with her bitter rage in icy torrents until the earth could soak up no more and drowned every last buttercup.
She felt a drop. Then another.
The rain came down faster and faster, the ground soaking it up greedily, and Persephone wondered how long it had been starved in this land of eternal summer.
The clouds that had gathered were not as dark as Persephone had imagined when she conjured the rain, but still blocked the sun's rays with a sheet of greyness.
She was drenched. The rain fell in one continuous cascade and Persephone tilted her head back, welcoming the drops to splash against her cheeks, her nose, her lips. She wanted to drink it all in.
Reaching out a cupped hand to catch the drops, a bird landed onto her palm, its claws digging crevices into her skin. Its feathers were simultaneously ruffled and matted, the pristine white colour almost silver in the rain. It cocked its head, beady eyes staring at her before releasing the vice grip on her hand and flapping off, sending a spray of water behind it. Persephone stared as it interwove between sheets of rain until it too was only a drop of grey in the distance, a giddy feeling bubbling in her chest.
Hair slicked to her face, Persephone laughed a warm tinkling sound that pulled green stalks out of the dirt, growing into a patch of blood-red roses. The red fascinated her, she had never seen a colour so rich, so deep, painted on the petals of flowers. Reaching out a finger and skimming it against the top of petals like she was coaxing music out of a wine glass, Persephone marvelled at the full bloom sitting on the stems coated with thorns. They wore them proudly. It spoke of beauty and power and everything in between.
She wanted to touch them. Curling her hand around the stem, she squeezed, feeling the thorns tear through her deathless skin and the slickness of the ichor dripping down her fingertips. Like golden honey.
