The descent was always the same.
The wheels of the chariot thundered against stone, the flames of the horses spilling into the dark like torn banners. Shadows rushed upward, swallowing the light of the world above until there was nothing but cavern and fire.
Hades held the reins loosely. His eyes did not shift to the tunnels they passed, or the rivers flowing beneath iron bridges, or the guards stationed along the walls. His thoughts were elsewhere.
On a meadow.
On a girl holding a basket.
On words he had not expected to hear.
Perhaps it is not flowers that fail. Perhaps it is the hand that holds them.
The phrase turned over in his mind like a stone in a river, again and again, smoothing but never vanishing.
–––
The chariot slowed before the black gates of the underworld. The horses stamped, fire trailing from their manes, before they were led away by shades. The gates opened, groaning under their weight, and Hades stepped inside.
