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April XXXX
The meadow overlooks a crystal sea. The clear blue water sparkles with playful delight, and the air carries a scent of lilies upon its gentle breeze. Frothy waves push and splash salty droplets against the cliffs, and the grass intertwines between your toes. This is your place, and it shall be so until the end of time. Away from the weight of Olympus’s clouds and the thunderstorms of great pressure. Undisturbed is the meadow and the sea for you and…
Death.
He creeps up gradually like he does for all mortals—a heavy presence that is shouldered and only sinks deeper. It is the weight pulling you down into the depths of the ocean. He is felt in the meadow, and the grass bends, its tall stalks bowing to the invisible wind, for even Mother Nature knows death comes for her too. A withered clover lays in the palm of your hand. You press a thumb against the dried leaf, and it crumbles, slipping through the cracks of your fingers and returning to the soil. Still, you stare at the sea, eyes on the horizon. He is not here for you.
His eyes shine a brilliant gold. You know this because you look at him, against your better judgement. Death brings out the curiosity in people. He stands rigid in the grass, his dark cloak against the soft green. He doesn’t move, save for the deep breaths he takes. Whether he notices you or not is unknown, for he continues to stay motionless like an old tree against the test of time and weather. You don’t speak to him. For the first time, you leave early. Death is alone in the field.
Night falls. When the stars wake up and present themselves, you return. The water rumbles, following a lullaby’s rhythm with its ebb and flow. The wind is faint, a flame singularly flickering in the air. Its cerulean fire blazes and cuts through the sky like a great fireball glowing in the night—beautiful and proud. Somehow, you feel as if you are not meant to see it. The blue flame burns for Death in the dark, and you gaze into its core. A glint of gold twinkles your way, then the fire extinguishes in the night.
May XXXX
He is late. Late is a strange way to put it because there is no exact time for when he should arrive, but you feel that he is late. Where were you? The question stirs your mind. Though, Death does not owe you this. Death does not owe anyone anything. He comes and goes as he pleases. Still, this is your meadow. Death may hold his dominion, but he cannot forget you are the same as him. He cannot take you.
Your body is close to his now. If he sees you, he does not acknowledge it.
“I didn’t know Death took a liking to this place as well.” You keep a neutral tone. He does not respond. Truthfully, you have never heard him speak before. On Olympus, he is the outcast, in the underworld, the recluse. Cast away, he governs the dead and rarely makes appearances above.
A long silence stretches out, so long that you think he’s already forgotten the remark. Then, you catch a low whisper. “It’s peaceful here,” he says. His voice is a raspy undertone, not unpleasant to hear, just unfamiliar. He does not say anymore, but three words are enough. You nod and steal a glance at him. His eyes are on the sea. Why is he so fixated on a neverending horizon? Perhaps Death and you are not so different, waiting on an answer, waiting for something to happen, but the sea remains calm.
June XXXX
The scene before you shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. In between the quiet weeks of the meadow, you had forgotten Death’s true character and his duty. Labored footsteps trudge toward you and halt, his body collapsing onto the welcome reprieve of the grass. You try not to turn, but you can’t help it. His skin is stained with blood, and remnants of an oily ink drip off him, presumably from the Underworld. His hair, no longer the proud flame from before, has dulled to a dim glow that fades in and out. His eyelids are heavy, and he stares at the sky, attempting to keep his eyes open before succumbing to his sorrows. He knows your gaze is on him. Though, his cloudy eyes are too powerless to send a glare. He shields his face.
“Don’t look at me,” he says with unstable breaths. “I know what you’re thinking.”
A rush of guilt floods you. Should you downturn your gaze or face the truth?
“I don’t like this either, this responsibility, but I have no choice. This is the kind of curse I’m burdened with for the rest of my life. Living among the dead in isolation…” He trails off and turns to his side.
You tentatively reach out a hand then stop, pausing in midair. There is nothing you can really say to help because he’s right. And it’s true, as much as you hate to admit it, the reminder that he is Death sends a chill down your spine and nausea up your throat.
You lay back in silence and let the flowers hold you.
July XXXX
You are the late one now. As you hurry over to the meadow’s edge, you catch a strand of azure flickering amongst the stalks in the wind. You lightly tread over to him. The man is asleep, his chest rising up and down in slow heaves. Did he fall asleep waiting for you? The thought makes a warmth spread through your chest. You kneel down next to his arm and delicately push a loose strand of hair off his forehead. His serene expression looks almost angelic. Strange, how he is the God of the Underworld, and yet, like this, he doesn’t seem at all like the same man that visits you sometimes with a metallic scent that clings to him. You inch closer without thinking.
The sides of your hand brush against his as you drift into sleep. The sea lulls you soothingly with its rhythmic waves, and the wind tickles your ear. Faintly, you think you can make out his soft spoken voice.
September XXXX
He is here before you. It’s been like that for quite some time now. You wonder when he arrives. He hears the rustle of your clothing against the grass and turns your direction. Your eyes meet. Then he hurriedly glances away, unsure of his next actions, before opting for a weak wave. You direct a smile back and stand next to his shoulder.
“I suppose I’ll have to really share this meadow from now on,” you comment jokingly.
A furtive look from him. “I.. hope it’s not too much trouble.”
You shake your head. “Frankly, it’s not so bad having company, especially from the esteemed God of the Underworld.”
He winces at the title. “I’m not that special…”
You chuckle and take a blade of grass in between your fingers. “More than me, at least.”
He begins to speak, then closes his mouth. In truth, he is one of the most powerful Gods on Olympus, and his abilities far exceed yours in terms of magical capabilities. Yet, somehow none of that matters here. In your presence, he can forget himself. It’s a dangerous thing—he knows—but it brings him all the comfort in the world.
November XXXX
Sometimes, you stray from the meadow. You walk beside him along the shore. The sand is less fine than you would prefer, but it makes for great collecting. You pick up a smooth pebble and move it around in your palm.
The God of the Underworld kicks at the sand with each shuffle he takes. When you inspect his face, it seems to be in deep thought. He is silent for a while as you continue down the beach.
“Do you ever wish you were mortal?” He asks, and you almost don’t hear the question amidst the rumbling waves.
“Mhmmm,” you drag out the syllable, pondering. “I’ve never really given much thought to it. Though if I were to become mortal and die, wouldn’t I end up in the Underworld with you?” You turn your head to him. “That wouldn’t be such a terrible fate.”
The tips of his hair turn pink. “Not like that. I meant if we were both mortal.”
“If it’s with you, then yes.” You crack a smile at him, and he turns increasingly bashful. His hair gently sways in the sunset, as if it was one with the warm colors, the faint pinks blending with the deep orange and red hues of the sky.
He sighs, his breath on a note of longing rather than melancholy. “It must be nice to be a mortal with no responsibilities on you that determine the balance of the world. To live unburdened by duty when you are born. To go anywhere and everywhere…”
“I thought you didn’t like going out from the Underworld,” you jest.
“Yeah, but it’s not like I have the freedom to anyways, so what’s the point?”
His posture slouches, his natural pessimism emanating from him.
“You’re here now,” you reply in an attempt at comfort, but your heart sinks a little when you see his eyes darken more. Despite his external appearance remaining the same, there’s a noticeable barrier between you and him. It’s thick and stifling, and you can’t muster up the strength to address it or break through.
“I know,” he says and he stares at the horizon. You no longer see his face. “But I shouldn’t be.”
The sun sets quicker than you anticipated and as you walk back in the night, his hair burns vividly against the inky sky. In the corner of your eye, you see him glance at you, ever so slightly. You can tell he has something to say, but he swallows it down. His Adam’s apple bobs with the weight of unspoken words. Suddenly, you think back to a couple months ago, and your mind begins constructing images against your will.
He looks at you the same way he looked at you before, his eyelids holding a certain grief to them with the reflection of death present. It’s the sort of look one has in their eyes when one is affected by a tragedy, except when you’re God of the Underworld, you see it every day and sooner or later, it changes you too. You are no longer terrified of it. Death is not such a scary thing anymore if it’s at his mercy.
Yet, you find an irritant gnawing at you, like a pesky insect. Worry has replaced fear. He is powerful—you're aware—but it makes him all the more vulnerable. You worry that he will be consumed by his own thoughts, and you won’t be able to keep up. You don’t want to lose him. He is the inevitable fate of many, and the fact that your fate does not end with him, makes you more unsure of yourself. He will see billions die and understand far more bloodshed than you could ever possibly imagine, but is it wrong to hope? You yearn for those idyllic days in the meadow, and it’s as if in that vacuum of time, you two can forget the responsibilities that come with being a god.
Your gaze drifts to his hand, empty against his thigh. To hold it would mean to accept change, to understand that if you chose to go to the Underworld, you would be bound there.
You hear his words again. In the end, all mortals go to him. If you were mortal, your fate would be the same, but here, you have a choice. Is this the freedom that he speaks of?
You reach for his hand, your fingers nearly touching, and then you remember his sorrow, dark and convoluted, with no end and no way out. Now, it seems more like a warning than an effect. Would he want this too? The place he views as a cage to drag you into its cold claws as well?
You don’t know.
December XXXX
“Will you hate me?” He asks. It’s an absurd question, you think, but the pitiful look he has, resembling a small cat, beckons an answer from you.
“No,” you answer, but gauging from his reaction, he’s grasping for more than a word. “For what?”
He swallows. “I-I didn’t tell you, but I can’t stay away for too long from the Underworld. The mortal world is kinda in chaos now, some kind of feud or something down there, but no matter what it is they’ll need me because lots of people are going to die.”
You expected this eventually. It was only a matter of time before his duty caught up to him, and you see the consequences.
“I don’t hate you for that,” you say. “I have my obligations as a god too.”
His shoulders sink again, and yours tense. Your heart skips a dreadful beat, and you don’t want to entertain the thought that there is something more. “What I mean is…” He says in a low voice. “I can’t meet you that much anymore.”
You freeze. This was to be expected, you tell yourself, but you want to deny it with all your heart. You remember his empty hand that night, and as you tremble now, you envision clasping it and squeezing his slender fingers.
“What if I meet you?”
“Huh?”
“What if I come to the Underworld?”
He sputters. “Wha-HUH? You? Come to the Underworld?”
“Yes.”
“I– no– no, no, no, you can’t do that to yourself.”
“I’m prepared to.” A wobble arises in your voice, but you are firm.
“Nuh-uh. I won’t let you. If you agree to come with me to the Underworld, you’ll be binding yourself. You’ll barely be able to come back up to Olympus.”
“I want to see you.”
He falters and is lost for words. Embarrassed, he covers the rosiness streaking across his face. “I’ll…” He stammers. “I’ll work something out, so you aren’t forced to stay down there. It’s the least I can do with these powers.”
He despises the traitor that’s his heart, the secret part of him that’s happy you have an interest in the Underworld. He can’t bear to drag you down with him and confine you to his curse.
“You won’t regret this? Are you sure?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“...”
“I’ll come. Wait for me.”
February XXXX
Death is near. You can sense it. It’s a similar atmosphere to the one you experienced when you first met him. An unmistakable sort of dread that runs through your veins and turns your blood cold. You know it’s him. You know he wouldn’t hurt you, and although there is some kind of instinct within you that guards against Death, one even immortals cannot escape from, you are ready.
The sky is covered with gray, and thunderbolts rain down to the world below. Most gods have partaken in the latest spectacle of the mortal world, some by choice and others out of necessity, and you guess he is the latter. The past few days have been rife with bloodshed, and mortals fall at an alarming rate. You haven’t seen him in weeks.
Now, a blue flame makes its way towards you. A rusted scent lingers in the air as the powerful fire flickers against the chaotic weather. One last surge of Death shudders through you before the sensation dies away as he rides closer. The galloping of hooves becomes audible, and he arrives in a dark chariot led by four black stallions at the reins.
He pauses near you, visibly out of breath as he leaps off from his chariot and runs to you. He bends over his knees, panting. “If…I was… mortal… exercise would definitely… kill me.” Taking a moment to recover, he reaches into a side pocket on his cloak and pulls out a fresh pomegranate.
Cupping your hands in his palms, his face flushes red. Though, it’s not due to an exertion of energy this time. His pulse, real and racing, throbs in your hands. Finally, this is what he feels like.
“I-I’m not go-good at this kinda stuff, but…” He gulps. “This is for you. It’s a token of the Underworld. I’ve made it so that when you eat it, you won’t be permanently bound to the Underworld. You can travel between the domains whenever you want. Just call my name, my real one, and I’ll come to get you.”
“And…” He looks away awkwardly, but his hair is not as easily hidden as his face. “You can stay for as long as you’d like. O-only if you want to, though! It’s not, like, a great place, or anything cause you know it’s pretty gloomy and all and-”
You grin. “What shall I call you?”
He leans closer, and his voice is almost a whisper, his breath brushing against your face. “Idia. Idia Shroud.”
May XXXX
The meadow overlooks the ocean. The clear blue water sparkles with playful delight, and the air is a gentle breeze carrying the scent of lilies. Frothy waves push and splash salty droplets against the cliffs, and the grass intertwines between your toes. This is your place, and it shall be so until the end of time. Away from the weight of Olympus’s clouds and the thunderstorms of great pressure. Undisturbed is the meadow and the sea for you and…
Idia.
After some months, most of the bloodshed had passed, and Olympus returned to what could be considered normalcy. It is quiet again, but the field is lonely with only one god. You hold the fruit in your palms. It is cut open, its bright red treasures glistening like rubies. You pop one in your mouth. It bursts with juice, sweet and perfectly ripe. You spit the seed in the grass. Years later, it will sprout into a magnificent tree. You can still feel the gentle warmth of his hands against yours. You call his name.
There is a galloping of hooves in the distance. The ground rumbles and splits open as the soil begins to sink. He is felt in the meadow, and the grass bends, its tall stalks bowing to the invisible wind, for even Mother Nature knows death comes for her too. You rub your thumb against the pomegranate soothingly. A familiar face appears. Idia doesn’t speak, but you can tell what he’s thinking from his upturned lips. You stare at him, eyes meeting in intimacy. He extends a hand to lift you into the chariot. You take it, holding on tightly. He is here for you.