They say my story is as old as the first dawn. Older than rivers that still whisper my name. Older than the roots that remember every secret ever buried.
You've heard it, I'm sure—
The Maiden stolen.
The flower-child dragged below.
The helpless girl crowned by tragedy.
Cute.
Tragic.
Completely wrong.
Here's the truth—the one no bard will ever sing:
I was never stolen.
I was never a victim.
And I was never meant for the light.
You know their story.
Now you'll hear mine — what really happened,
what the gods would burn the world to keep hidden.
And like all truths worth telling…
It begins in the dark.
The throne beneath me was carved from obsidian — cold, unyielding, alive with veins of gold that pulsed like a heartbeat.
I sat there in silence.
Before me stretched the Underworld I had shaped — a kingdom of bloom and bone, where roses thrived in ash and every petal dripped with memory.
The air shimmered with ghosts of all I had loved and lost.
And yet, I smiled.
I had become everything mother feared.
Everything I was never meant to be.
Once, I had been light — all grace and gold, sculpted by Demeter's will into the perfect daughter of spring.
But light, I learned, is nothing without shadow to define it.
I traced the curve of my throne, fingertips brushing the veins of gold. They vibrated beneath my touch, alive with the magic that answered only to me now.
"You wanted me to bloom," I whispered to the empty air.
"You never asked what kind of flower I was."
For a moment, the Underworld seemed as though it breathed with me — soft, reverent, listening.
Then the memory came.
The first crack in the surface.
The first hunger.
The first lie I refused to swallow.
And I remembered — not as the Queen of Death, but as the girl who heard the roots calling her name.
🌸 PERSEPHONE 🌸
The world above had always smelled of sunlight and sugar.
Demeter made sure of that.
Every breath, every blossom, every ritualized smile was a lesson in obedience.
The air shimmered with mother's power — sweet, suffocating, golden.
It clung to my skin like honey until I forgot what it meant to breathe without it.
"A goddess of spring must be kind," Demeter had told me once, while pressing a crown of daisies into my hair.
"A goddess of spring must never let the world see her falter."
I nodded, as I always did.
But even then, I had felt it — that tremor.
A voice beneath the roots.
An ache in the pit of my stomach.
The faint, humming heartbeat of the world below.
When I was alone, I would kneel in the meadows and press my palms deep into the soil until my nails bit the earth.
I'd whisper questions Demeter would never dare allow me to ask.
What lies beneath your flowers,
The roots would answer — faint at first, a murmur through dirt and decay.
And each time, I'd listen longer.
Each time, the voice grew clearer.
I began dreaming of a place where nothing bloomed on command.
Where life and death tangled together until I could no longer tell them apart.
Where I could finally stop pretending that light was all I was made for.
But dreams have weight, and mine began to drag me down.
One night, I woke to find my hands stained with soil and my bed surrounded by withered flowers.
The daisies my mother loved most — gone to rot.
Demeter never asked how.
She instead forced me to kneel in the garden until my knees bled, forcing me to coax new blossoms from the dirt.
I smiled as I did it.
Because the soil recognized her touch.
And this time, when the flowers opened — they bled too.
🌑 HADES 🌑
The Underworld never changed.
That was its curse — and his.
A realm of stillness, carved from the bones of eternity, where even time bowed its head and forgot to move.
He had long stopped listening for sound here. The silence was complete.
Until tonight.
The first tremor came like a breath drawn in the dark.
Faint. Disobedient. Alive.
Hades lifted his head, the movement slow, deliberate — an instinct older than the sun.
The earth itself shivered under his palms.
Power surged through his throne and down to the roots that threaded the Underworld's veins.
Something had stirred above.
Not mortal. Not divine in the way he knew divinity.
This was… wild. Unyielding. Hungry.
He stood, the black folds of his mantle whispering against the marble.
The shadows clung to him as if afraid to be left behind.
"Who trespasses?"
His voice carried, low and heavy, and the air recoiled from it.
No answer — only another surge, closer now.
It sank through the stone floor, drenching his skin, and found the hollow place inside his chest where warmth had long since died.
For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a pulse.
Soft. Steady. Irresistible.
He closed his eyes, tracing the sensation to its source.
Through layers of earth, through veins of gold and shadow, it reached him — that strange heartbeat echoing his own.
And beneath it, a whisper.
Not words — but desire.
Something had called to him.
And for the first time in centuries, the god who ruled the dead wanted to answer.
He followed the pulse through the dark.
Each step carried him past the river that swallowed souls, past the fields of the forgotten.
Their whispers rose as he passed — a rustle of awe, or warning, he couldn't tell.
He reached the edge of his kingdom — where even death dissipated.
And through that nothing, he saw her.
A fracture of light above the world.
A figure kneeling in a field of withering blooms, her hair spilling like liquid gold drowned in shadow.
She was touching the earth — no, commanding it.
And the soil obeyed.
He could feel it through the divide — the roots shivering to her song, the flowers twisting toward her voice.
But what held him wasn't her power.
It was the contradiction of her.
Light and dark.
Bloom and ruin.
All of it in her hands.
"What are you?" he whispered.
As if she'd heard him, her head lifted.
Her gaze met his through stone and shadow — impossible, but it happened.
For an instant, their worlds touched.
And Hades forgot every law that bound them apart.
The Underworld surged — rivers rising, walls cracking from the weight of it.
The dead screamed her name without knowing it.
He reached for her — not with hands, but with power, with will, with every part of him that still remembered wanting.
But the moment shattered.
The connection severed.
He stood alone again in the dark, trembling like the earth itself.
The last trace of her magic lingered on his tongue — wild and alive, tasting of life and decay, of something that dared to defy him.
And for the first time in centuries, the King of the Dead smiled.
"So," he murmured, voice low and dangerous.
"The goddess of spring remembers how to bloom."
🌸 PERSEPHONE 🌸
The earth was still trembling when I opened my eyes.
The meadow had gone silent — no birds, no wind, only the lull of something vast beneath my palms.
I pulled my hands from the soil. It clung to my skin, dark and warm, as if it breathed.
As if it knew.
I stared down at my hands.
The dirt had stained my fingertips, seeping into the lines of my skin like ink.
The roots no longer whispered — they listened.
And in that silence, I felt it —
a presence from the depths below.
Ancient.
Watching.
The change in the atmosphere was the first warning sign. The air became syrupy sweet like narcissus.
My pulse stuttered.
A tremor rippled through the ground, softer now. Like a quiet, relieved exhale from the earth itself.
I should have run.
I should have been afraid.
But instead, I smiled.
Because whatever this was — it had answered my call.
The soil beneath me cracked, faint light spilling through the fractures.
It wasn't sunlight; it was older, molten, alive.
My magic trembled in answer, reaching towards it like vines hungry for the dark.
Then, in an instant, the glow faded.
The ground sealed itself shut.
The air went still again.
The ground was warm beneath me, and the roots shifted once more, curling around my ankles like a promise.
As I stood, breath trembling as the first drops of rain began to fall.
The sky split open, thunder rolling across the horizon.
Somewhere below, I knew, something — someone — had stirred.
And the thought was thrilling.
I turned toward the edge of the meadow, each step slow, deliberate, the taste of storm on my tongue.
For the first time in my immortal life, I did not look back toward the light.
I walked toward the dark.
And the dark walked toward me.