Chapter Text
He recalls when he was still human, a time when the former God of Death was still in power, taking souls before their time left and right, because she could.
L’arc had offered his service to the gods in order to stop her, kneeling before them when he first saw Him.
In a corner cast in shadows he stood, hair like a raven’s wing, pale creamy skin and bright eyes that flashed a vivid glowing green in spite of the darkness.
Melanthe, the vicious God of Spring.
In the battle that felled the former death god, while L'arc had fought with a scythe and brute force, Melanthe had fought with naught but a shield and his own cunning. They had stuck close to one another, the god drawing the attention of undead monsters while the mortal cut them down, Melanthe healing him when he was wounded and L'arc jumping to his side when he was surrounded.
It had been a battle that discovered a strange symbiosis between them, something that he had never felt with anyone before.
And apparently, something the God of Spring never felt before either.
“Why not let him take the mantle? He seems capable and stable enough not to let the power go to his head.” He had suggested when the question of who would take on the title of God of Death arose, much to the surprise of all present.
Of all the gods, Melanthe rarely spoke a good word about others, which meant his compliment carried great weight.
L'arc had been crowned a god before the day was done.
The years that followed were stressful. Thousands died every day and every single one of them needed to be judged for the life they led, whether they were permitted to choose between the blessed afterlife and rebirth, or to be cast to the depths of his domain. For L'arc, although a king in mortal life, the duties of a god were almost too daunting to bear.
That is until Melanthe came.
Many years his elder in the life of a god, and plenty of time between the end of his season and the beginning of the next to his own devices, Melanthe had picked up on many skills and talents. Among them had been ruling large domains, such as the Underworld.
So after every turn of Spring, L'arc would have a tutor.
“Hello L'arc.”
“Master Melanthe!” L'arc had opened the door to his chambers to find the God of Spring sitting on the edge of his desk, a scroll containing the list of souls in hand, perusing its contents.
“What brings you here?” He asked politely, shaken by the appearance of the unexpected guest.
“Spring is finished.” Melanthe replied simply, “I have nothing better to do, so I decided to drop down and see how you were faring. All things considered you seem to be managing.”
He glances at the cluttered desk. “Barely.”
L'arc blushed and crossed the room to his desk, “Ah, sorry about the mess!” he laughed, vainly attempting to clear the space. “I wasn't expecting company.”
“You should try to keep your workspace clear, regardless of whether or not you have guests.” The Spring god lightly scolded, catching a stray scroll that had rolled off the desk.
L'arc sighed, giving up on the herculean task of making the desk look presentable in favour of plopping himself into the ornate mahogany chair and sagging.
“I know, I know. I try to but it seems like every time I get things in place, something else gets dropped on it and I have deal with it then ten more things join it while I do.” The newly appointed God of Death sat alone scrubbed a hand down his face tiredly, “It never ends!”
“And it's unlikely that it ever will,” Melanthe places the scrolls in his hand on top of the hundreds of others on the desk. “Death is, after all, constant.”
L'arc groaned and slumped in the chair.
Silence filled the room as the God of Spring surveyed the scene before him. An exhausted death god sitting by a desk piled ceiling high with scrolls, paperwork and stars knows what else. He sighed, resting his forehead in his hand.
“I had hoped your past as a king would have given you an edge in ruling the Underworld. I see now I was too hasty in my nomination...”
These words had L'arc jerking to his feet, almost knocking over the chair in his haste. “No! No, I can do it!” He cried, waving his hands in front of him desperately. The thought of disappointing the god that had spoken so highly of him and gained him such a prestigious title...
“I just need time to get used to it all! Please, just give me mor-”
“Calm down. I’m not going to tell the others to revoke your title for this.” Melanthe stood and rested a hand on L'arc's head, lightly ruffling the red locks. “I just meant that before giving you the position, we should have showed you how to how fulfil the role properly.”
The hand slipped from L'arc's head down to his shoulder. “The role for the God of Death isn't one that can be left unfilled for long, and all of us had assumed that being a king would make this easy for you, so we didn’t believe it necessary to explain. But clearly the Underworld is infinitely larger and requires more handling than any kingdom.”
“Yeah...”
His hand drops into crossed arms with a hum and he closes his eyes in thought.
L'arc waits silently for... whatever he was deciding.
“Very well.”
He didn't need to wait long for the decision that changed his life.
“Spring is finished and I will not be needed until the full turn of the seasons has passed. Until then, I shall show you how to rule the Underworld more efficiently.”
L'arc blinked in surprise, eyes widening. “You?! But you're not-”
“Before the power had driven her mad, I used to help your predecessor in running this world.” Melanthe explained, his eyes glazing slightly as he casts his mind back to the time he spoke of. A time when he and the Goddess of Death had become friends (or so he had thought) after all the Autumns and Winters he spent in the Underworld to prevent his magic from passively affecting the land and bringing to life things that should be dying. All that time spent with such a beautiful lady with wavy hair the colour of wine and intelligent green eyes upon a pale youthful face, he would be lying if he said that he hadn't been besotted with her once upon a time.
That infatuation had been what made it easy for her to slowly delegate her duties to him since he “had so much time to spare~” and start fooling around, him none the wiser for centuries.
He shakes his head and rids himself of the past to return to the present.
Foolish as he had been to fall for her wiles, it was what helped him become intimately familiar with the inner-workings of the land of the dead.
“Shall we get started then?”
L'arc shakes himself and nods, retaking his seat and pulling himself towards his desk while Melanthe reseats himself on the corner.
“Are you sure this is alright?” L'arc asked, trying not to sound too timid at the sudden proximity to the elder god. “I know Spring has ended but surely you have other duties to attend to.
For the first time since L’arc had met him, Melanthe smiled (and oh, what a lovely smile it had been) in what seemed to be amusement.
“The only duties I have are during Springtime, any other ‘duties’ people claim I have are frivolous tasks set by old fools who believe I should be observing everything all year long simply because I am a seasonal god and obligated to ensure that all seasons go smoothly, or demanding that I should be adhering to their ancient traditions because they are my seniors and therefore my betters.”
He suddenly turned and pointed at L’arc, all previous amusement gone and an almost maniacal glint in his eyes and a vine of ivy threateningly slithering out of his sleeve as the air seemed to grow a sudden chill, “There is only one thing you must know about me, and that is; I don’t take orders or demands from anyone. Everything I do, I do for myself and for my benefits, and anyone who believes they can control me or that I should be controlled is a fool.”
He takes a calming breath after his heated speech and turns back to the scrolls littering the desk, leaving L’arc wide-eyed in shock at the sudden outburst. He had heard of the Spring god’s vicious nature and the battle against his predecessor had proved the rumours true, but this disdain towards his own kind was something else entirely. The fury he had radiated when he talked of controlling senior gods spoke of a deeper, darker story.
“But enough of all that. Let us begin” Melanthe said, suddenly calm and cool as ever.
L’arc turned to find his desk had been expertly cleared while he had been lost in thought, scrolls neatly piled to his left with one unrolled before him and a ruby well of ink with a pen inside ready to be used to his right “A clear workspace allows for a clearer mind,” Melanthe said lightly dusting the mahogany surface with one hand, “So try to keep it at least somewhat tidy, hm?”
“Right, of course!” L'arc nods his head, a faint memory of his father saying something similar while training his son to be king briefly flitting to the surface of his mind.
Oh how far he has come since those days, a prince fearing kinghood but willing to try with all his might under the kind but firm guiding hand of his father...
Something suddenly appeared in his vision, pulling him from his stroll down memory lane and back to the present. L’arc looked down to see a fruit bowl, filled to the brim with ripe, jewel-coloured fruits set in front of him.
He looked at Melanthe, brows raised, “I aren’t we immortal? I thought we didn’t need to eat.”
Melanthe chuckled, picking up a pomegranate and slicing into the soft skin with a nail. “Immortal we may be, but even we need to keep our energy up during harrowing work.” He splits the exotic fruit in half and places one half pack in the bowl, “And I will tell you now, L’arc Berg; being the God of Death is very harrowing.”
L’arc watches with a lascivious fascination as pale fingers dig out a ruby coloured seed out of the shell and he pops it into his mouth, his tongue swiping away the bright red juice coating the tips like blood whilst a little droplet settles in the corner of his lips. He’s suddenly overcome with a desire to lean in and lick it away.
He gulps, red faced and shakes himself. “What am I thinking!?” He chastises himself, turning away from the perfectly innocent scene of the God of Spring enjoying an exotic fruit that his mind seemed bent on twisting into something perverted and indecent. “He has graciously offered his aid in adjusting to the grand position that he himself nominated you for and you reduce him to-”
“Eat something.” Melanthe’s voice cuts through L'arc’s self -scolding, blissfully oblivious to his dilemma. “You have a lot of work ahead of you, God of Death. You best keep your energy up.”
“Ah! Yeah, right!” L'arc plucks a grape from its stem and pops it in his mouth, a tart sweetness exploding in his mouth when he bites into it's flesh. He hums, suddenly realizing how hungry he really is and bites into another, feeling some of the exhaustion lift from his bones.
“Good?” Melanthe chuckles. L'arc nods in reply, green apple in hand with a huge chunk bitten out, wiping the sour juice away with his sleeve, jolts of energy coursing through his body like bolts of lightning and awakening him from his sluggishness. Melanthe, pleased with this outcome, replaces the half of his pomegranate into the bowl and leans forward, pulling the open scroll towards them.
“Now, here is the best way to start...”
The months that followed were full of rigorous teaching and learning.
Slowly catching up on all the work that L'arc's predecessor had left behind while learning to keep the Underworld functioning: when to determine whether a mortal is to die or not, how best to judge the worth of a soul, the creation and upkeep of servants of the dead, which tasks could and should be delegated to the servants and which he should always handle personally.
Years came and went and by the decades end, the realm of gods and mortals alike knew the name; L'arc Berg, the Fair and Just God of Death, trained by none other than the vicious and cunning God of Spring.
Melanthe; beautiful, intelligent, powerful, talented and self-serving. Oh how hard he had fallen for the God of Spring.
Every day they spent together had been both harrowing and thrilling. From the first day of training, a routine had been established between them without either needing to say a word.
L'arc would wake up, get dressed behind an ornate screen depicting a forest of trees painted in black ink with blossoms of blood red against a snowy sky (a gift from the Goddess of the Earth and mountains Ost to celebrate his inauguration) and by the time he stepped out, Melanthe would be there, sitting on his assigned seat of the corner of L'arc’s desk, a hearty breakfast of meat, vegetables and fruit in hand with a cup of something hot and bitter yet delightfully invigorating.
Once the (positively delicious) breakfast was finished, work would begin, a scroll placed in front of him to be filled out while Melanthe pointed out and explained the more detailed areas to him, slowly but surely shifting closer until he hovered over L'arc's shoulder, voice lowered to a whisper in his ear and the scent of freshly cut grass and moist earth causing him to shiver softly.
After all the paperwork had been completed they would take a break, sitting on a bench out on the balcony with a bowl of fruit between them, eating while chatting. L'arc would regale tales of his past battles and adventures as a Prince and a King and Melanthe would in turn recount his stories of traveling under the guise of a mortal merchant, learning to make potions and magical artefacts from humans.
It was during these moments that L'arc learned of Melanthe's hunger for knowledge regardless of where it came from. Where other gods would dismiss mortal crafts as useless in comparison to their holy power, Melanthe sought to not just learn and understand but to improve these skills. In fact, it had been with these skills that Melanthe had been able to right the mistakes and wrongs of other gods while masquerading as a simple human, earning him the respect and reverence of many mortals in many lands. He also learned that Melanthe hated being idle, he always had to have a project to work on or something to do, hence his hunger for knowledge.
“Main reason I started tutoring you was because it gave me something to do.” He had said with a teasing smirk and an elbow to L'arcs side.
The time for stories would come to an end and they would walk through the Underworld and survey the souls that entered, left or went deeper, judging, passing and punishing accordingly. After all was finished, Melanthe would cook a fantastic dinner for both of them (another skill he had learned from humans) and they would talk more until eyelids began to droop, where they would bid each other goodnight and retire to their respective chambers, only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.
This simple, domestic routine succeeded in helping L'arc to adjust to his new role. Springtime, although lonely, was no longer as daunting as it was when the God of Spring began tutoring him. L'arc could now not only run the land of the dead with ease on his own, but also do it with plenty of time to relax.
Soon enough, Melanthe didn't even need to return to the Underworld after Spring ended.
But he did. Every year on the first day of Summer without fail.
And the gates of the Underworld were always open for him to come and go as he pleased.
Every moment spent together drew them ever closer, titles dropped in favour of names, stiff and terse comments from the Spring god relaxed to dry jokes and soft laughter and smiles began to be accompanied by slightly flushed cheeks and soft looks.
Then, one Summer day...
“I have something to show you.” L'arc slipped his hand into Melanthe's, laughing at his raised brows and dragging him through the corridors of the palace to the roof, where a surprise that had been in the works for the better part of a year awaited them.
They reached a set of tall, dark doors, brass handles shining gold in the candlelight.
L'arc released his hand and cocked his head at the doors, an excited smile of barely contained glee on his face. Melanthe tilted his head at L'arc with a questioning furrow in his brow as he stepped towards the doors and placed his hands on the brass. He pushed them open and stepped in, or rather out, to be met with a huge, empty garden atop the castle roof.
Unplanted patches of soil littered the ground surrounded by empty urns and stone benches, pillars standing tall on the edges surrounding the garden and reaching up high and sitting proudly in the centre, a little pond. Above, a cavernous hole carved into the stone allowed the sunlight from the living world to filter in, bathing the garden-to-be in a warm glow.
Melanthes eyes widened, stepping forward into the empty garden full of possibilities and turned back to look at L’arc.
“What... is all this?”
“A gift! For you!” The God of Death leaned on the frame of the giant doors with that playful grin on his face as he revelled in the rare moment of rendering the God of Spring utterly speechless, eyes wide and mouth slightly open in surprise.
“I know how much you loathe to be idle for too long,” He explained, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking forward to his friend,
“So now that my tutoring is officially completed and you’re left with nothing to do after Spring, I had this place built while you were away so when you came back, you would have a little project to work on while you were here.”
This garden was hardly a ‘little project’. Soil to be replaced and adjusted, deciding what plants and flowers to grow and where. It would probably take months, if not years to fully fill a grove of this size.
It was perfect.
Plans were already starting to form in his mind and his chest was starting to swell with the familiar feeling of excitement he got before he started to dig into a new idea, a little smile growing on his face as his eyes lit up.
“I... don’t know what to say. This is... Thank you.”
L’arc smiled softly, hundreds of things he wanted to say in that moment coming to mind.
‘No need to thank me’
‘This will really bring some colour to the place’
‘I’m just happy you’re happy’
‘Stars above, you look so beautiful when you smile like that’
‘Would you look at me with those eyes one day?’
“You’re welcome.” Is what he settles for.
Work on the garden began immediately.
Now when L’arc woke in the morn, Melanthe would be there with his breakfast of fruits and drink, but would leave once L’arc finished it and began his work.
Hours he would spend making plans and marking out ideas for his blank canvas of a garden, L’arc dropping by on his few moments away from his work, sitting on one of the stone benches, a bowl of fruit and a pitcher of water next to him and sometimes chiming in with a few ideas of his own but mostly just watching Melanthe work, work, work away on hands and knees under bushes, between flowers, often practically nose deep in the soil with such vigour and excitement, having to be dragged away by a laughing God of Death to eat drink or sleep.
Melanthe would huff when he realized that Winter was nearly finished and he would have to abandon his precious project for something so mundane to him, leaving with strict instructions for L’arc to never enter until his return (Never mind that this was L’ARC’S home and so technically it was HIS garden) and L’arc would agree with a laugh and a hug.
This carried on for years on end, and L’arc could tell when it was reaching the final stages when Melanthe began forbidding him from entering the garden at all.
Dragging him away from his work had become even harder from the other side of the door locked by sturdy vines with wicked looking thorns. He had made the mistake of trying to remove them only once, he was knocked out by a powerful sedative for at least an hour and had blue tinted skin for days.
He never touched them again.
Then one day the vines were gone.
He approached the doors with much more caution than he usually possessed and gently pushed them open.
The brisk smell of fresh air and wildflowers welcomed him, the sudden sunlight nearly blinding him.
Before him, a completely new garden greeted him.
Bushes full of multi-coloured hydrangeas and peonies lined the sides of simple cobbled pathways, previously empty urns were planted with bright red camellias, little white burnet roses and many snap dragons of many hues. The pillars had been painted a pearly white and were crawling with ivy and little curled Morning Glories so densely they shielded the garden from prying eyes, and the benches were shaded from the sun above with weeping willows and lilac trees that exuded a nostalgic scent reminding him of a childhood long past.
He wandered through paths that should have been familiar to him but had changed so much, surrounded by flowers and trees, some he knew names of, some he had seen but had never known the names and some exotic plants he had never seen in his life, until the cobbles turned to grass and he finally found the centrepiece of the garden.
The large pond glittered joyfully in the sunlight like an aquamarine, bright pink and white water lilies and lily pads bobbing on the surface like little boats, and by the waters edge sat Melanthe, on his knees tending to a bed of flowers.
Hearing L’arc approach he lifts his head and smiles a tired and satisfied grin, a smear of dirt streaked on his cheek, his hair messier than usual and with stray lilac flowers scattered throughout, the pale purple bright against the black tresses.
Oh, what a vision he was against the glittering pond behind him, bathed in the amber light of sunset.
“How beautiful...”
“Thank you, it took years to finish but it was worth the hard work and the wait, don’t you think?” Melanthe stood, stretched his weary arms above his head and dusted the dirt and blades of grass off his simple cotton tunic, not quite befitting of a god but very fitting on him.
“It’s amazing Melanthe, I can feel your magic at work within this place” L’arc replies, stepping closer to the God of Spring, noticing how the collar of tunic had been stretched, showing off his neck and clavicle and dipping down to reveal a little of his chest.
He decided to be a little brave and reached out, gently brushing a lock hair away from Melanthe’s face and behind his ear, letting his hand linger.
“I wasn’t talking about the garden, however.” Those verdant eyes widened with surprise and a delightful shade of pink stained the Spring god’s cheeks. He opened his mouth, closed it then opened it again only to snap it back shut. It was rare for him to be lost for words and yet here he was, gaping like a fish and completely thrown off by a grinning God of Death.
Then he started to laugh.
Quietly at first, trying to regain composure only to quickly lose the battle and clutch his sides, shoulders shaking furiously.
For a moment, L‘arc was shocked silent, but just a moment then he joined Melanthe in his unexpected mirth.
So they stood by the lake guffawing like a pair of fools for ages, until they ran out of breath and were laying on the grass. As they were finally managing to catch their breath, smiling red eyes locked with glittering green.
The two gods sat up and looked out upon the silver pond, the King of the Day having finished his golden path across the sky and the Queen of the Night had sent her glowing silver eye to gaze upon the land.
Nothing was said between them. Nothing needed to be said.
They just shifted a little closer until their shoulders touched and their hands were brushing and sat in a comfortable silence, hidden from prying eyes in what would later be called the Garden of Eternal Spring.
Many hours were spent in that garden when there was time to have spare, walking the paths side by side, Melanthe telling L’arc the names, meanings and uses of the many flowers, trees and herbs, eating together on the stone benches and sharing stories or lazing on the grass by the pond.
It was by this pond that Melanthe had felt comfortable enough to tell L’arc the story of his past, gazing into it as though the events were playing out within it’s waters.
The story of himself and the other gods, particularly the gods of the other seasons favoured by the King of Day, how their hubris and pride had caused near disasters and how Melanthe himself had resolved them only to carry the blame for their mistakes for years.
How the God of Summer, patron of leaders, prideful and golden haired had cleared the skies above a farming country, claiming that the bright sun and warm air would invigorate the people and bring them joy (but mostly so the mortal women would don their looser, more revealing garments if not strip entirely), only to dry up the clouds that brought the rain and diminish the lakes and reservoirs.
How the God of Autumn, patron of hunters, youthful in face and believing he could do no wrong, ushered in his season so the leaves would change from their simple, boring green to bejewelled oranges, reds and yellows to decorate the land and trees. But with the painting of the leaves came the Autumn chill that withered the crops before they could properly flourish, leaving the people without food for the remainder of the year.
How the God of Winter, patron of warriors, the youngest of them all and the closest to being mature, finds a city of his worship under siege from an enemy country and in an attempt to assert himself as a protector of his people had summoned a great snowstorm to halt the enemy forces. The storm indeed succeeded in taking down the enemies but alas, the cold was a double-edged sword, for just as many civilians of the city he was trying to protect fell buried beneath the snow and ice.
Melanthe would never had even noticed anything amiss had it not been for the sudden influx of souls flooding the Underworld while he was doing the book-keeping at the death goddesses’ request. Determined to find out what caused this sudden increase of death, he had returned to the world above to find it in almost complete devastation.
Realizing the elder gods, least of all the King of Day, weren’t planning on stepping in to correct the wrongs of his brothers, that was when Melanthe had decided to take matters in his own hands.
It was forbidden for non-elder gods to impede upon the work of other gods, so begun his adventures under the guise of a simple mortal merchant. He travelled to the damaged lands with all the skills he had acquired, medicines imbued with his own magic and his godly influence passively affecting the world around him.
In the land of Summer drought, he brought Spring showers to cool the air, rehydrate the land and refill the lakes.
In the withering land of Autumn, everywhere he walked the greenery started to spring back to life, leaving the people with just enough food to last to the next harvest.
In the Winter-ridden land, his presence dispersed the snow clouds to let the sun shine through and warmed the frozen land while he gave the chilled people hot soup.
Soon enough, after managing to reduce the death toll immensely, he was found out.
For his efforts to rectify his brothers mistakes, the King of Day berated him for daring to tamper with the works of his favoured gods without permission, supposedly causing the disasters he had worked to fix, refusing to listen to Meanthe’s explanations and punished him by trapping him in the depths of the Underworld, claiming that someone had to keep him on a short leash in order to ensure he did not go out of line again, calling upon the former goddess of death (who was his daughter of all things!) to ensure the Spring god would not escape.
Melanthe had been comforted by the knowledge that his friend would be his jailer, they had already spent so much time together, surely this wouldn’t be so bad. Then a wicked smile had warped her lovely face into something unrecognizable.
That day was the day Melanthe realized the true nature of the death goddess. Especially when he learned that it had been her who had claimed Melanthe had sabotaged the other gods work, claimed that he was violent and brutal, that he had threatened her when she had tried to make him leave, that he assaulted her, that he had- he had-.
It was there Melanthe fell silent for a moment, face twisted into something painful and furious, L’arc could see an unspoken tale in his eyes that told him of endless pain and suffering under his predecessor. He had laid his hand on Melanthe’s shoulder, attempting to convey that he didn’t need to continue if he didn’t want to.
The storm cloud on Melanthe’s face cleared and he smiled at L'arc softly, reaching up and laying his hand atop.
He never went into detail about what he had suffered by the hands of L'arc’s predecessor (perhaps for the best) and instead recalled the end of his story, where the Queen of Night had returned from some unknown business furious at the treatment of the God of Spring, the three other seasonal gods blatant misuse of power and her husbands willingness to turn a blind eye to it all.
She publicly shamed her husband, locking him in ice and demanding that Melanthe be released, but alas the damage had been done. Gone was the bright eyed and hopeful embodiment of Spring, what limped out of the Underworld was a dead-eyed man littered with wounds and scars and harbouring a grudge.
The Goddess of Death had mysteriously vanished from her realm, it seemed that she had manipulated the three gods, preying on their weaknesses and stroking their egos so they would use their power irresponsibly to cause a higher death count, devouring the souls for power rather than judging them as she should have been, plans of consuming the mortal realm and the world of the gods discovered during the search of her realm.
A hunt for the Goddess of Death was put into motion before she could put her dastardly plan to action.
For their misconduct, the Gods of Summer, Autumn and Winter were stripped of their powers and their spirits cast to the mortal realm in hopes that being reborn and living amongst the humans would teach them humility and responsibility (Melanthe wouldn’t hold his hopes high).
“The rest,” He said tiredly, “You know.”
The story had been as painful to tell as it was to hear, that much was obvious to L’arc.
But it seemed to be exactly what Melanthe needed. For after he shared his tale, it was as though a great weight had been lifted from his soul. After he was able to share his burden with another, Melanthe started to laugh and smile more and more, the already beautiful garden flourishing as if sensing his brightened spirit.
After he allowed himself to open up to L’arc, they grew closer and closer.
The first time L’arc called Melanthe ‘kiddo’ while he was clipping herbs had been met with an affronted sputter and a reminder, “I am much older than you! I have lived TEN of your lifetimes!” but alas, the nickname stuck, and before long Melanthe’s offended huffs turned to rolling eyes and fond smiles.
The first time he had caught Melanthe napping when he visited the garden during a break, curled up beneath one of the weeping willows, hands by his mouth that was slightly upturned into a tiny smile as he cuddled into his cloak like a blanket had L’arc having to take a moment to calm himself before any unholy sounds born of the adorable scene woke the slumbering god.
The first time they danced together under the moon and surrounded by fireflies, his pale, strong body swaying in shy tandem with his own to a tune neither of them could hear, warm and supple in his arms, was when L’arc truly knew how much he had fallen for the God of Spring. And when he looked down, scarlet eyes locking with fresh green eyes gazing so softly at him, L’arc knew that Melanthe had fallen for him too.
The first time they kissed was an event that was long overdue. On a stone bench they sat enjoying the sun and a cool drink to combat the heat, ages after that first dance, L’arc had looked over to Melanthe, finding him already staring at the God of Death. Seeing that shy smile Melanthe gave him when he realized he’d been caught, it was as if something clicked. L’arc had put the glass aside and leaned in, cupping Melanthe’s face and gently tracing a thumb across his lower lip. Those green eyes widened in shock as L’arc leaned just a little closer, mouth opening slightly and casting a warm breath against L’arc’s lips.
Then L’arc asked a simple yet heavy question. “May I kiss you?”
Melanthe, lost for words, could only nod in reply. A thousand years would pass and L’arc would always remember with fondness how, for all the confidence and stoicism he possessed, Melanthe’s lips had trembled against his own so timidly.
And the first time they made love, oh what wonderful night it was.
The night before Melanthe was to return to the surface world for his duties, they had hidden away in the garden, guarded by the foliage against spying eyes. Passionate kisses were followed by wandering hands, leading to robes being cast aside and Melanthe being lowered onto his back, writhing and gasping under his lovers touch, assurances and sweet nothings whispered in his ear as L’arc worshipped his body, the flowers and leaves shivering with their master’s delight as he reached his peak.
When came morn, the early sun would shine upon the gods of Spring and death sleeping peacefully on soft green grass, tangled in each others arms, a long pale leg hooked across L’arc’s waist, his face buried in soft black locks and the two surrounded by golden buttercups and little pink painted daisies that yesterday were not there.
Spring may have come a little late that year.
It was clear to them and all who saw them together that Melanthe and L’arc were perfect for one another, some were in awe of L’arc’s ability to ‘tame’ the merciless God of Spring, others were shocked Melanthe had any room in his heart for love, but few were surprised when they announced their engagement, upon their chests were a pair of large matching lockets engraved with words written in L’arc’s mother tongue as proof of their devotion.
Their marriage was blessed happily by the Queen of Night and begrudgingly by the King of Day, the Springs that followed were vibrant and wonderful for the mortals, Fitoria’s voice in the wind spreading the joyful word of the heavenly marriage across the land, the Underworld found itself ruled by two kings for three seasons a year, mortals quickly learned if they had lived a less than ideal life, their best chance of mercy was to appeal to not the God of Death who judged them but his husband who always stood next to him.
Centuries their marriage lasted, the ideal love that mortals and even other gods aspired to achieve Everything had been perfect for so long.
And then it happened.
The King of Day, tired of mortals losing faith in the gods as the years went by, declared that the gods should reveal themselves, punish the non-believers and personally force their belief and herd the faithful, but his wife upheld that the mortals should govern themselves without interference.
Havoc followed. It was the great King against the grand Queen and their followers. Everyone had chosen their side, either out of fear or out of a shared view. Everyone but one.
“You aren’t joining the fight!?”
Melanthe’s incredulous voice pulled L’arc’s attention from his work and he looked up.
“No, I’m not,” He puts the pen back in the inkwell and stands, stretching his arms above his head, “As the God of Death I am to remain neutral in instances of war, that was what you told me when I was given the title, was it not?”
“Wars among mortals L’arc, wars among gods is a much larger problem!” Melanthe argued.
L’arc shook his head, “Even so, I have no plans to join this fight.”
Melanthe frowned, “Why are you so against fighting? You were a warrior king weren’t you?”
“This is different, my love. I’ve more power and influence than I did before, if I join either side of this battle, it will greatly affect the tide of the war.”
“But that would be a good thing!” His husband cried indignantly, “The Queen of Night and Princess of Stars, Aultcray’s own wife and daughter agree that he’s gone out of control. Something needs to be done!”
“Regardless,” L’arc cuts in, “It’s for the best if we stay out of this. If they want something done, they can do it themselves.”
Melanthe sighed, He knew L’arc could be stubborn but this was hardly the time!
Then he realized something.
“L’arc.”
The God of Death hummed.
“What do you mean “We”?”
“Exactly what I said. The two of us will remain here while the others have their little war. I know you can usher your season from here, so you’ll be safe.”
Silence.
L’arc turned to find a cold expression on his husbands face, brows drawn into a frown and his mouth a grim line.
“You seem to be confused, husband...” Melanthe said in a tone that matched his face, “I intend to take part in this “little war” alongside Mirellia.”
The room suddenly became very chilled. L’arc turned slowly to face his husband fully, expression stony.
“What?” That one syllable was laced with such ice that the candles dimmed and the bugs hiding in the corners of the rooms scuttled away into their nests with fear.
Melanthe had no such fear. He looked his lover dead in the eyes and replied with as much ice, “Exactly what I said, I have already informed Queen Mirellia that I will fight by her side. She requested me to convince you to do so as well, however it seems I will have to disappoint her on that front.”
L’arc’s expression was deadly serious bordering on furious, while Melanthe had a frustratingly blank mask of displeasure in reply. The tension grew the longer the silence ran, so much so that a lesser being would faint with fright.
“Rescind your agreement.”
“Excuse me?”
It was a dare not a question, and L’arc wasn’t about to lose.
“Rescind. Your. Agreement.” The God of Death repeated slowly, “Tell the Queen of Night that you will not be taking part in this petty fight of hers.”
Once upon a time, the fury on Melanthe’s face would have sent L’arc running for his life, but oh how times had changed.
“I will not!” He snarled.
L’arc tried to remain composed and not let his growing frustration seep into his voice.
“I know you and Aultcray have had your grievances but that is no excuse to just jump into-”
“You know full well there is more than “grievances”, L’arc Berg! You know exactly what he did to me!”
He did know, and it had infuriated him to no end that the God of the sun and king of gods had tormented his beloved for such selfish reasons, but nevertheless.
“This is no petty squabble, this is a war!”
“You think I don’t know that!? You think I want to fight him because I’m petty!? This is bigger than all that! This is about how he wants to turn mortals into mindless sheep because he isn’t getting the reverence he wants!”
He strode forward with every word until he and L’arc were chest to chest his eyes, that the God of Death had always compared to fresh Spring grass, full of acid.
“He hates you as much as you hate him!” He tries to reason with his husband, “If he sees you on the opposite side of the battlefield he’ll kill you!”
Melanthe scoffed, “The old fool can try! I’m not picking this fight on my own you know, I’ll be part of the Queen’s army.”
L’arc finally lost his patience. “YOU WILL NOT!” He summoned his scythe and slammed the butt on the floor, cracks spreading on the grey marble like a web.
“YOU WILL STAY AND USHER SPRING FROM HERE!” His eyes flashed a bloody, furious red, “YOU ARE NOT GOING TO BE A PART OF THIS WAR!”
“YOU CANNOT CAGE ME HERE, L’ARC BERG!” From the crack L’arc had forced into the marble floor, thick vines of ivy creeped out and twined themselves around the symbol of L’arc’s status, “IF I WISH TO FIGHT, I WILL!”
“YOU. WILL. NOT!” L’arc’s voice had turned to thunder and the vines tangled on his scythe burst into flames, “I FORBID YOU!”
SLAP
The sound reverberated through the Underworld so even the sinners at the bottom of the pits could hear and the animals in the mortal realm pricked up their ears, then silence.
L’arc stood wide eyed, head turned to the side. His right cheek burned. Melanthe had struck him, his husband had slapped him! L’arc’s grip on his scythe tightened until his knuckles turned white and he closed his eyes.
A shame. Had he turned to face Melanthe, he would have seen how the God of Spring briefly looked at his own hand in shock before he schooled his expression to a mask of cold anger.
“You have no right to forbid me from anything.” He said monotonously, “I am not yours to possess and control simply because I am married to you. I am your husband, not your slave. You are my husband, not my master. You have no right to speak to me that way. No one does.”
Then he turned and walked towards the door, stopping as he laid his hand on the knob.
“I will respect your choice not to fight, but I am going to and you will not stop me.” Then he pushed the door open and walked through, slamming it behind him.
L’arc didn’t move or speak to stop him. He stood stock still for ages, like a fine statue surrounded by burnt ivy, long after Melanthe’s presence disappeared.
The sun had set and night had fallen when L’arc finally moved, trudging tiredly to his desk as his scythe crumbled to ash and was blown away by a non-existent wind. He sat down heavily, resting his elbows on the dark wooden surface and interlocking his fingers and stared at nothing with empty eyes.
It was completely silent save for his own slow, deep breaths, the candle to his left guttering as it reached it’s last drops of wax and threatened to flicker out completely. The room had gone very cold.
It was a familiar setting, one that came every Spring when he would be left on his own for months that felt endless until the first week of Summer.
But it wasn’t Spring, it was comfortably in the middle of Autumn when the trees would be shedding their jewel coloured gowns and they wouldn’t be clothed for many more months. He was never left alone at this time.
He had would have been by L’arc’s side, looking over paperwork with him, encouraging him ‘Just a few more...’ and kissing his cheek, denying him a proper one until he finished.
He looked down at his desk. Tidy but not immaculate, scrolls neatly stacked on one side and finished scrolls stacked a little less neatly on the other, to his right a ruby inkwell with a few spots of black staining the wood surrounding it and an empty fruit bowl next to it.
The space beside him was cold.
The God of Death buries his face in his hands and tries not to sob.
His cheek throbbed.
It was a battle of wills after that day.
L’arc never left the Underworld, running it as always but without his husband by his side. He would let the gods have their civil war, realize how fruitless it all was, call a truce, then wait for Melanthe to apologize.
He could wait. He would wait.
So he did.
One year, two years, ten, fifty, one hundred, two hundred then more, and there was no end in sight for the war between gods.
Mortals, gods and spirits alike flooded into his domain. Some he recognized, others he did not. But Melanthe was never among them.
That part was the most relieving and frustrating. So he continued to wait, refusing to lose this waiting game between them. Melanthe himself had tempered his patience while tutoring him and now L’arc would use it against him, his will was strong and he would not falter, interfere or give up. Not this time...
Then came the message.
A little whisper of wind managed to slip it’s way into his home, small enough to squeeze through his defences and quiet enough to bypass his guards. In his ear, a voice like a breeze through dry grass whispered mournfully.
“He’s missing. . .”
L’arc did not need to ask who ‘He’ was.
There was only one person who the God of Death could possibly care about enough at this time to warrant such a grim message.
L’arc had tried to maintain his stance and stay away from the conflict, he really did.
But constant thoughts of Melanthe falling in battle, the silence that followed him everywhere, the cold spot in his bed next to him, the crushing loneliness began to chip away at his resolve.
Though he swore not to even interact with the human realm or involve himself with Melanthe until the godly squabble was resolved and he returned on his own, he kept an ear to the souls that wandered the mortal for information.
He did not need to wait for long.
Soon enough, a spirit relayed what it had heard in a church of the Sun (Of course it was). How the Sun God’s followers had managed to capture his beloved and cast a ritual to strip him of his power and his godly status, trapping him in the form of a mortal man in an attempt to weaken the Queen of Night’s army and boost the King of Day’s chances of victory.
The only good news was that Melanthe had escaped their clutches, but none knew where he had gone.
His beloved was missing or worse, meanwhile above, the civil war between gods raged on. He had had enough of the other god's foolishness.
It was time to end it.
A sea of fire erupted from the land in the middle of their battlefield, and from the flames he appeared, scythe on full display and his eyes glowering a furious scarlet.
On one side, he saw Mirellia, the Queen of Night and Goddess of the Moon widen her eyes in shock while her foolish husband Aultcray, King of Day and God of the Sun had a smug look on his face. It was not even a moment before he opened his big mouth.
“L’arc Berg, how wonderful for you to join us! Better late than never.” He crowed with his insufferable voice, “Now let us end this foolishness and bring the mortals to-”
L’arc silenced the chattering monkey of a God with a furious gaze.
He turned to Mirellia, who had schooled her expression to a blank mask, she at least had the good sense to remain silent.
“That. Is. Enough.” He said, voice eerily calm.
“L’arc, I was under the impression you would not be joining this fight.” She replied with equal calm laced with caution.
The God of Death’s face was stony, “I am not. You two will cease this war now, whether you like it or not.”
“W-what!” Aultcray found his voice and began shouting red-faced, “How dare you come here and make demands like that!? This is a matter of our godhood being-”
“I SAID ENOUGH!” A thunderous crack opened in the ground upon L’arc slamming his scythe down, the grass withering beneath his feet.
The God of the Sun squeaked pathetically and quieted.
“I grow tired of this squabble,” The sky grew dark with L’arc’s words, reflecting his anger and unsettling all present. “I will give you all two options to decide your fate”
His voice rang clear as a bell through the air, causing many a shiver among the gods, “Either cease your fight and return to your homes and duties, or else...”
He casually rests his scythe on his shoulder and smiles
“...I’ll rally my own army and wipe out the mortals you all fight over so furiously.”
There was silence for all of eight seconds before shouting and crying erupted.
“No!”
“Surely he is not serious!?”
“Has he gone insane!?”
“He would never actually DO that.... Would he...?”
“Has he turned into his predecessor?”
“Well he IS the God of Death...”
“But he can’t-!"
Aultcray’s voice cut through the clamouring crowd,
“You’re Mad! We Gods depend on mortal prayers and offerings for our power! Our immortality! If you destroy them all-“
“You will all have nothing left to fight over, you will all perish and I will remain.” L’arc cut him off
“You!? But you’re-” He is cut off again,
“The God of Death. And death, Aultcray...” He turns to the King of Day, looking him dead in the eye with a wicked smile marring his handsome face, “...Is constant. I will never be without souls to worship me.”
Aultcray stumbled back, nearly tripping on his robes in his haste.
Those eyes, that smile, that cold self beneficial disregard for his brethren . . .
He looked just like . . .
“L’arc, has Melanthe truly corrupted you so!? To despise your own kind!?”
He should have known! Of course the wicked Devil of Spring would seduce and twist the strongest God he could get his hands on!
Alas, there was nothing the King of Day could do to free him from Melanthe’s grasp, it was clear by the frighteningly familiar expression the God of Death wore.
“I will say this one more time!” He demanded ignoring the God of the Sun’s desperate accusation, the terrifying smile dropping off his face, “Cease your fight or I will wipe out this world and everything in it!”
Everyone turned to each other, whispers melding together into an indistinguishable rabble.
Did they really wish to stop this fight? The God of Death was only one against hundreds, surely they could overwhelm him? But he was strong and had an entire army of his own to fight back . . . What to do, what to do!
At last they were silent when the Queen of Night spoke up.
“You will spare the humans so long as we perform a truce?” She asked.
“Yes.” L’arc affirmed.
The Queen of Night looked down at her daughter.
The usually upright and brave little Princess of Stars was gripping her mothers’ skirts and watching the L’arc fearfully. Still young and not quite grown into her power.
Should the mortals perish, she would most certainly be the first to fade away.
The Goddess of the Moon closed her eyes and took a deep breath,then she opened them and locked eyes with the God of Death once again.
“Very well. I accept your terms.”
L’arc only nodded in reply, then turned to the God of the Sun saying nothing. Aultcray was red-faced with fury from not just the humiliation he suffered, but also with the knowledge that he had no way of winning. “Fine!” He spat and said nothing more, growling at the smug smile that had appeared on L’arc’s face.
“Glad we could come to an agreement. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what will happen if any of you break this truce, hm?”
And with that, L’arc sunk back into the ground and disappeared, leaving the others to awkwardly shuffle away home glaring at each other as they left.
And that, as they say, was that.
The war was over and done, L’arc had personally seen to it. That meant all that was left was to await Melanthe’s return through one of the other gods.
It would be a simply be a matter of him finding a temple or shrine to one of his allies or even L’arc himself which there were plenty of, and call for aid. Then he would just have to wait for Spring to end and for Melanthe to come home.
Spring was already quickly approaching it’s end, and L’arc couldn’t deny the fact that with each passing day he became just a little more excited to see his beloved again. By the time the last day of Spring arrived, L’arc didn’t even care about getting an apology.
Then the last day of Spring passed.
The first day of Summer began. Then it ended.
Then the second day passed.
Then the third.
The fourth.
The fifth.
The sixth.
One week.
On the eighth day, L’arc reached out to the other gods. Nobody had heard from Melanthe. And no one knew where he was.
L’arc flew into a rage.
The earth trembled with his cries, he wrecked his chamber, tore apart the undead servants if they were in his path, the judged spirits cowered in fear and the spirits yet to be judged feared for their very souls.
His temper stayed alight for a full week before it finally dwindled.
After that, he locked the Garden of Eternal Spring away and cast the key to the depths, then barred himself away in his ruined chamber, curled up pathetically in his bed weeping like a babe, his chest tight and his heart heavy. He didn’t leave, didn’t eat, and only very rarely slept.
A year passed and there was no word of or from his husband.
He was trapped in his own mind, desperately trying to feel some semblance of the warmth his beloved Melanthe would leave in their shared bed, fantasizing about his quiet smile, his beautiful eyes, his creamy skin, his fresh grassy scent, his embraces, his kisses, his voice, his hands, anything and everything.
But although time never moved forward in that chamber, it certainly did outside of it.
Mortals continued to die, their souls continued to fall to the Underworld but no one was there to judge them. They remained for years, wandering, waiting, wailing, wishing for the end to take them and put them out of their misery.
It was years before their cries became loud enough to penetrate the thick haze of misery that L’arc was drowning in.
For the first time in a long while, the God of Death raised his head from his pillow, eyes stinging and tear-streaked cheeks.
How long had he spent laying in his self-pity? How long had the mortal souls been building up while he was nursing his broken heart.
“This damned heart!” He croaked.
Every time he tried to move or think of anything, Melanthe would appear in his vision and his heart would squeeze and become like lead.
Melanthe had come to completely possess it without him realizing just how much. Did L’arc even slightly possess Melanthe’s? The God of Spring himself proudly admitted how self-serving he was. Had it all been a game for him?
Oh how that thought hurt.
It hurt so much.
How did his husband manage to control him so without him even realizing?
Because L’arc had given his heart to him without condition.
And now he was paying the price. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t think without Melanthe everything impossible. He couldn’t function like this. He couldn’t work like this. He couldn’t be a God like this.
Not when his traitorous heart was in his grasp.
“. . .”
L’arc sat up slowly and turned his gaze to the bedside table, where a familiar glint of metal greeted him.
The next thing he knew, his sickle was in his hands, both hands gripping it like a lifeline.
“I can’t do this anymore . . .”
The wicked point was pressed against his chest.
“I can’t do anything like this . . .”
His heart thundered so much it began to hurt.
“I can’t let you control me like this!”
“Don’t be foolish.” Melanthe’s voice echoed in his head.
He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s never coming back, he’s never coming back to you.
Never
NEVER
NEVER
“Get this damned thing out of me!”
He could almost feel Melanthe’s disappointed and furious gaze upon him.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD
The sickle pierced his chest and he screamed.