[Submission] The Dead Do Not Haunt Him Nearly as Much
But love was trouble. Love was trouble. Love was trouble.
Love was trouble.
She certainly doesn’t look it, Hades muttered to himself, watching her. Despite popular opinion about him up on earth, the God of the Dead didn’t actually resent love. In fact, like all beings, immortal or otherwise, there was a part of him that ached for it. But love was trouble. Love was trouble. Love was trouble.
How often had he seen the souls drifting for eternity, souls condemned to the Underworld purely out of longing, out of heartbreak, out of pain for the one they loved? If they knew what was good for them, they’d stay away from it too. Love was trouble, love was trouble, love was trouble.
Besides, he had enough to worry about, what with the influx of souls, lamenting incessantly. Their cries rattled his brain and echoed in his sleep. During the day, they haunted him, following from place to place, grasping at him with mangled, white hands that would never see the light of day again, would never swim in the sea, would never feel a lover’s embrace. The dead and their regrets were his only company.
And in she strolled, Goddess of Spring. One could not really fault him for taking an interest in her, could they? After so long surrounded by melancholic ghouls he could hardly help but be drawn to the one being that brought life wherever she went. Flowers bloomed in her wake. The sweet scent of hyacinths, hanging ripe from her hair like swollen fruit, following her small form. Part of him was sick of it, her earthly beauty, her sickly colours and smells, her voice - everywhere. He was haunted by her in an unfamiliar yet almost endearing way, like an attention-loving stray cat or a pitiful fly. Her laugh trailed behind every corner, found him on every darkened street. Suddenly, it was less the glimmers of sunlight that fought their way to the depths of the earth and more her, that made his muscles relax and his jaw unclench. She had affected him the way that lavender made one drowsy. She, the unsuspecting beauty; he, the curt, appreciative observer.
Love was trouble, love was trouble, love was trouble.
“Hey sailor,” she chirped.
Her voice shoved him back into his senses. “Morning,” he grunted.
He took a drag of his cigarette and did not look at her. He could feel her smile on him. “Do you always have cigarettes for breakfast?” She asked.
He took another drag and she watched him fill his lungs, hold, then exhale a thin rivulet of smoke through his nostrils. The way he smoked was like sin, the way he breathed like a swimmer, destroying his lungs like poetry. “As opposed to pomegranates?” He quipped.
She did not reply. He noticed a small lily in her hair, dark and deep red like wine, weaving into her curls. She was barefoot, she was always barefoot, like a dryad, the tips of her pinked toes covered in crumbled, blackened soil. It did not seem to bother her. But then it wouldn’t - that was her element, after all. Even in this darkened realm.
“Your mother must be incredibly upset with you,” he smirked.
She snorted once, loudly. “Yes, well, if she wasn’t so easily angered perhaps I wouldn’t be here.”
“Angered, or protective?” He asked simply.
She shot him a look. “She’ll get over it.”
“Uh-huh. I hear the earth is paying for her melancholy.”
She made a slight noise in her throat, almost like choking; a humourless laugh. “Please. She should have seen it coming.”
He looked at her, eyebrows raised just barely.
“Death and the Maiden is a story that’s been recited for aeons, Hades. We like to repeat history. Familiar tropes are comforting to us.”
“Is that what we are? A familiar trope?” He looked into the distance, expression stony. Silly girl. Divinity will stain your lips and keep you here forever, he thought.
“We could be more,” she echoed, and as if she heard his thought, she plucked the cigarette from his fingertips like it was a flower, bringing it to her pink lips.
Somewhere in the distance, a soul wailed loudly. Its heartbreak was a guttural sound, loud enough for the entire Underworld and its dead to choke on. To sit with, to chew, to spit out or swallow. That was love.
This story was submitted to the White Lily Society for the limited time submission prompt “Death and the Maiden”.
Maariya is an author, artist, and Art History student from England. Her works are mostly historical fiction or centred around mythology, where she creates with their inspiration; the sun-soaked poems of Sappho and Catullus, the longing of lost lovers, the star-studded heroes and their pursuit of glory. She is enthralled with ideas of art, intellect, and philosophy, and is currently working on her second novel, while Kleos, her first, set in the Renaissance, is being edited. She regularly posts about her projects on her Instagram, @ sincerely.maariya
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