Appearances can be deceiving, especially if they've been put up for nearly four thousand years. It's strange living in a world, where home is prison and freedom is a foreign term.

She sits in her throne, watching, playing with a peace of fabric as her husband rules over his realm, his Underworld. A hellish place, where rivers of blood ran for eternity and where she was queen. She'd shiver at her chair of skulls and skin, and remember her old throne of climbers and flowers, but when you've lived so long like this, you tend to become numb; not immune, just numb.

She watched his lithe body leaning forward, his arms coiling protectively around his helm of darkness and she remembered how those claws had felt as they'd gripped her ankle, so many years ago and pulled her down here.

She told him that she was going for a walk, and went to her garden, anything close to her real world, a world of spring and flowers.

She strolled around, wondering what would've happened had she not eaten the wretched seeds, which sprouted the roots which held her here. She ran a finger through her hair, which was now dark from the lack of sunlight.

"Persephone," came his voice from outside, and she frowned. Even her real name as forgotten.

He walked to her, taking her by the waist, smiling at her. She watched his dark eyes bore into hers and she saw love there. Love which, for a second, made her warm in this frozen hell.

Then the darkness swam around in those orbs, changing to hunger and triumph and she sighed.

She couldn't forget that he wasn't her lover. He was the master, she was the eternal slave, and she followed him, dragging the invisible shackles, which held a vice grip on her.

Shackles which held her here for eternity.