Love and hate are like two sides of the same coin—forever back-to-back, never meeting, yet separated only by the thinnest layer of fate. You flip it, and no one can predict whether it will land on devotion or loathing.
Persephone's coin had landed hard on hate when she first met Hades.
And honestly? That was inevitable.
There was nothing romantic about their first encounter—no moonlit meadow, no gentle confessions. It was more… fairy tale in the wrong way. Imagine a brigand kidnapping the princess to make her his bride. Except in this version, the princess's father didn't have an army, the neighboring kingdoms didn't care, and there wasn't a single prince in sight who could stand a chance against the brigand. Probably not even the princess herself.
So Persephone—bright, stubborn, hopelessly unprepared—had been stolen into the Underworld.
And in those early days, her heart had room for only one thing: hate.
Now?
Now she was lifting Hades' chin with two fingers, smiling sweetly.
"Smile, dear. Not that grim line you call a smile—give me something that actually warms the heart."
Hades, god of the dead, lord of shadows, ruler of all things cold, was letting her physically reposition his mouth like he was a shy schoolboy.
Right now, she was undeniably happy.
The Underworld was quiet in the way that could gnaw on your soul. Not a single flower bloomed here—not willingly. She remembered curling up in corners, knees drawn tight, drowning in the stillness. She had wanted to run, but the taste of pomegranate seeds had sealed her fate. She'd been trapped—alive in body, but everything else withering.
But over time, she'd… adjusted. Learned to stroll the banks of the Styx without flinching when Cerberus argued with himself in three-part harmony. Learned to read the awkward silences and clumsy affections of a god who'd never been taught tenderness.
"The Lord of the Dead doesn't warm anyone's heart," Hades muttered, holding his face in the smile she'd given him like a man wearing a borrowed suit.
"You two are disgustingly cute," Cyd said dryly, watching them like he'd just been force-fed an entire bakery of wedding cake.
"We're the model couple," Persephone announced proudly, looping her arm through Hades' and ignoring the fact that once upon a time, she'd sworn she'd kill herself if he so much as touched her.
Hades cleared his throat and looked away, ears tinged with red.
Greek god marriages were… complicated. Famous disasters, even. Aphrodite and Ares cheating on Hephaestus in increasingly public ways, until the smith god literally caught them in a net for the entire court to see. Cyd wasn't sure how that even worked, given all three were women in this particular age. He had questions. Many questions.
"Right. Before I forget—your mother, Demeter, sent a message," Cyd said, shooting a glance at Hades before lowering his voice. "Do you want it now?"
"I'll—" Hades started, standing.
Only to have his hand caught by Persephone. "No, stay. Every time you walk away at a moment like this, I end up stuck here only three months a year."
Cyd blinked. That was… not what Demeter had told him. She'd made it sound like Persephone wanted to spend as little time here as possible. The way these two looked at each other now? Yeah, Demeter was going to have a meltdown when she found out.
Hades hesitated, then gave in to her gaze.
"Fine," he said.
Persephone waved a hand dismissively. "Mother always says the same three things: Don't talk to him, don't look at him, don't even breathe the same air as him. What else could there be?"
Cyd's mouth twitched. "…There may be… a bit more to it."
"Like what? That I shouldn't marry him? Too late." She folded her arms.
Hades' face darkened slightly. Demeter's love was a fierce thing—too fierce. She'd never forgive herself for losing her daughter, but she'd never let that self-blame soften into forgiveness for Hades either.
Cyd sighed. "She said… she's sorry."
The words froze the air. Persephone's smile turned brittle, caught somewhere between disbelief and defense.
Hades turned his head away. He didn't need to hear the rest.
Sorry for not being there when you needed me most.
Sorry I couldn't save you.
Sorry that all I knew how to do was smother you with warnings.
Sorry I failed you as a mother.
The white jade bracelet on Cyd's wrist pulsed faintly, the embedded crystal glowing with a soft light. In it, Persephone could almost see Demeter herself—crying, frantic, discarding divine pride to simply be a mother.
"I… shouldn't have…" Persephone covered her mouth. A tear slipped down her cheek, warm against the cold air of the palace.
"Here," Cyd said gently. He reached into his pack, pulled out a handful of seeds, and flung them upward.
They caught the light of the crystal and bloomed mid-air. No soil, no water—just roots weaving into each other like a tapestry. In seconds, the cold black stone of the throne room became a garden.
Flowers.
Flowers in the Underworld.
Petals drifted down, brushing her hair like her mother's hands once had. Persephone could almost hear her—see her standing quietly in the distance while Persephone danced among blooms in the mortal world.
Would you still watch over me, even here?
Persephone stood and began to move, her steps as light as they had been aboveground.
Hades watched, transfixed. She was as beautiful as the first moment he'd seen her—beautiful enough to make him forget his duty, to make him choose her over the cracks threatening his realm.
Now she was his. Entirely.
"Hades," Persephone called, her voice soft but unshakable, hand outstretched toward him.
And for the first time in his eternal rule, Hades thought maybe the Underworld wasn't so lonely after all.
"Time to make ourselves scarce," Cyd murmured to Medusa, who had been watching silently beside him.
"Blessing time?" she asked.
"Not right now." He jerked his chin toward the throne. "Interrupting that would be… suicidal. And ironic."
Medusa smirked. "You do realize we're already in the Underworld."
"No. This—" he started walking toward the corridor "—is their home."
For now, the blessing could wait. Hades' eyes were locked on one person, and Cyd had the sense to know when he wasn't needed.
"I really am—" he pushed a palm against the great doors "—a meddler."
"You certainly are," came Hades' voice from deep within.
The doors groaned open. Sunlight stabbed into his eyes.
Sunlight? In the Underworld?
"May we never meet again," Hades' voice drifted after him, carrying an odd tenderness.
A gentle force shoved him forward.
Cerberus cracked one lazy eye open from his post by the gates, then shut it again.
"Guess your little business here is officially closed," the ferryman called, cheerfully clubbing an uninvited soul with his oar.
Cyd lifted his left wrist. The black crystal set in his white jade bracelet caught the light—unmistakable, steady.
From this day on, the one called Cyd would have no ties with death.
Love and hate are like two sides of the same coin—forever back-to-back, never meeting, yet separated only by the thinnest layer of fate. You flip it, and no one can predict whether it will land on devotion or loathing.
Persephone's coin had landed hard on hate when she first met Hades.
And honestly? That was inevitable.
There was nothing romantic about their first encounter—no moonlit meadow, no gentle confessions. It was more… fairy tale in the wrong way. Imagine a brigand kidnapping the princess to make her his bride. Except in this version, the princess's father didn't have an army, the neighboring kingdoms didn't care, and there wasn't a single prince in sight who could stand a chance against the brigand. Probably not even the princess herself.
So Persephone—bright, stubborn, hopelessly unprepared—had been stolen into the Underworld.
And in those early days, her heart had room for only one thing: hate.
Now?
Now she was lifting Hades' chin with two fingers, smiling sweetly.
"Smile, dear. Not that grim line you call a smile—give me something that actually warms the heart."
Hades, god of the dead, lord of shadows, ruler of all things cold, was letting her physically reposition his mouth like he was a shy schoolboy.
Right now, she was undeniably happy.
The Underworld was quiet in the way that could gnaw on your soul. Not a single flower bloomed here—not willingly. She remembered curling up in corners, knees drawn tight, drowning in the stillness. She had wanted to run, but the taste of pomegranate seeds had sealed her fate. She'd been trapped—alive in body, but everything else withering.
But over time, she'd… adjusted. Learned to stroll the banks of the Styx without flinching when Cerberus argued with himself in three-part harmony. Learned to read the awkward silences and clumsy affections of a god who'd never been taught tenderness.
"The Lord of the Dead doesn't warm anyone's heart," Hades muttered, holding his face in the smile she'd given him like a man wearing a borrowed suit.
"You two are disgustingly cute," Cyd said dryly, watching them like he'd just been force-fed an entire bakery of wedding cake.
"We're the model couple," Persephone announced proudly, looping her arm through Hades' and ignoring the fact that once upon a time, she'd sworn she'd kill herself if he so much as touched her.
Hades cleared his throat and looked away, ears tinged with red.
Greek god marriages were… complicated. Famous disasters, even. Aphrodite and Ares cheating on Hephaestus in increasingly public ways, until the smith god literally caught them in a net for the entire court to see. Cyd wasn't sure how that even worked, given all three were women in this particular age. He had questions. Many questions.
"Right. Before I forget—your mother, Demeter, sent a message," Cyd said, shooting a glance at Hades before lowering his voice. "Do you want it now?"
"I'll—" Hades started, standing.
Only to have his hand caught by Persephone. "No, stay. Every time you walk away at a moment like this, I end up stuck here only three months a year."
Cyd blinked. That was… not what Demeter had told him. She'd made it sound like Persephone wanted to spend as little time here as possible. The way these two looked at each other now? Yeah, Demeter was going to have a meltdown when she found out.
Hades hesitated, then gave in to her gaze.
"Fine," he said.
Persephone waved a hand dismissively. "Mother always says the same three things: Don't talk to him, don't look at him, don't even breathe the same air as him. What else could there be?"
Cyd's mouth twitched. "…There may be… a bit more to it."
"Like what? That I shouldn't marry him? Too late." She folded her arms.
Hades' face darkened slightly. Demeter's love was a fierce thing—too fierce. She'd never forgive herself for losing her daughter, but she'd never let that self-blame soften into forgiveness for Hades either.
Cyd sighed. "She said… she's sorry."
The words froze the air. Persephone's smile turned brittle, caught somewhere between disbelief and defense.
Hades turned his head away. He didn't need to hear the rest.
Sorry for not being there when you needed me most.
Sorry I couldn't save you.
Sorry that all I knew how to do was smother you with warnings.
Sorry I failed you as a mother.
The white jade bracelet on Cyd's wrist pulsed faintly, the embedded crystal glowing with a soft light. In it, Persephone could almost see Demeter herself—crying, frantic, discarding divine pride to simply be a mother.
"I… shouldn't have…" Persephone covered her mouth. A tear slipped down her cheek, warm against the cold air of the palace.
"Here," Cyd said gently. He reached into his pack, pulled out a handful of seeds, and flung them upward.
They caught the light of the crystal and bloomed mid-air. No soil, no water—just roots weaving into each other like a tapestry. In seconds, the cold black stone of the throne room became a garden.
Flowers.
Flowers in the Underworld.
Petals drifted down, brushing her hair like her mother's hands once had. Persephone could almost hear her—see her standing quietly in the distance while Persephone danced among blooms in the mortal world.
Would you still watch over me, even here?
Persephone stood and began to move, her steps as light as they had been aboveground.
Hades watched, transfixed. She was as beautiful as the first moment he'd seen her—beautiful enough to make him forget his duty, to make him choose her over the cracks threatening his realm.
Now she was his. Entirely.
"Hades," Persephone called, her voice soft but unshakable, hand outstretched toward him.
And for the first time in his eternal rule, Hades thought maybe the Underworld wasn't so lonely after all.
"Time to make ourselves scarce," Cyd murmured to Medusa, who had been watching silently beside him.
"Blessing time?" she asked.
"Not right now." He jerked his chin toward the throne. "Interrupting that would be… suicidal. And ironic."
Medusa smirked. "You do realize we're already in the Underworld."
"No. This—" he started walking toward the corridor "—is their home."
For now, the blessing could wait. Hades' eyes were locked on one person, and Cyd had the sense to know when he wasn't needed.
"I really am—" he pushed a palm against the great doors "—a meddler."
"You certainly are," came Hades' voice from deep within.
The doors groaned open. Sunlight stabbed into his eyes.
Sunlight? In the Underworld?
"May we never meet again," Hades' voice drifted after him, carrying an odd tenderness.
A gentle force shoved him forward.
Cerberus cracked one lazy eye open from his post by the gates, then shut it again.
"Guess your little business here is officially closed," the ferryman called, cheerfully clubbing an uninvited soul with his oar.
Cyd lifted his left wrist. The black crystal set in his white jade bracelet caught the light—unmistakable, steady.
From this day on, the one called Cyd would have no ties with death.