magnetic fields of elysium

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She is the spring. She is the sunshine and the clouds and she is alive. She breathes the perfume of a thousand flowers and she lives the globe of fire Helios pulls across the sky. She runs across meadows painted the greenest of green, and the winds whisper her name.

Persephone, they murmur, ages after her downfall, Persephone is the spring.

And it is true—her hair is the color of earth and her eyes the color of the blades of grass, and flowers spring from her feet when she runs.

So it is hardly suitable that she falls for Hades.

Because Hades is the darkness. He is the shades of black and the shadows and he might just be dead, sometimes. He breathes the wishes of a thousand-billion ghosts and he lives the fake sun that hangs quietly in the cavern of Hades—named after him, for he is the epitome of hell, when he wishes to be.

Hades, a thousand-billion-trillion souls—dead or alive—whisper, Hades is hell and hell is Hades and Hades could be dead.

And it is a lie—for although his black hair sometimes burns like fire and his eyes are the onyx that the deepest pits of Hades are, he is not heartless and he is far, far from being hell. He is far from being dead.

He is very much alive.

So perhaps, she thinks, it's okay that he is the underworld and I am the spring. Perhaps, just this once, opposites attract in just the right way.

She lives in the 'perhaps' of life.