queen of flowers

“Which flower is this, my love?” Hades asked, tilting the scrying glass from one bloom to the next. A cup of fluted white petals, with vermilion stigmata and dusty yellow stamen.

His wife settled closer against his side, under his arm. He held the scrying bowl in his lap with his other arm. It was a gloomy day in the underworld, and he had hoped to remind her of spring cheer by showing her flowers.

She never complained. But she was made of light, made of nectar and birdsong. What if her soul collapsed here, under the weight of the world? He couldn’t bear it.

“Oh, this is one of my very favorites,” Persephone sighed dreamily, as though she were recalling a poem. “The saffron crocus. My people — well, my living people,” she giggled. “They harvest these little red threads to flavor their most exquisite dishes.”

“You are exquisite, Melinoia,” he murmured, kissing her blonde head. She flushed, as she always did when he praised her, as though it were rare.

She took a breath.

“But the biggest reason these are my favorite is that they start to bloom in early autumn. So they let me know that soon I’ll be coming home to you.”

Hades had thought himself beyond flushing. But here he was, pink as a schoolboy at his queen’s words.

“Home?”

She nodded, and her honeyed scent enveloped him. He tightened his arm around her shoulders.

“Home, to you,” she whispered.

Hades bent and pressed his lips to hers, and marveled again at how wonderfully soft and warm she was, how she loved him despite being everything he was not.

He would give her anything, all his riches, at her merest word. He was utterly at her mercy, and he knew she would never do a thing to hurt him.

“I love you so, my precious queen,” he murmured, his already deep voice husky with emotion.

“As I love you, my king,” she whispered back.