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•••
Gyuvin waits until his mother is away, sowing fields of wheat for a town devastated by a flood, before entering the meadow. It is a secret, hidden thing, a gift from his mother created only for him; a tiny kingdom all his own, though he longs for much more.
Purple irises bend above a clear stream, silk-thin crocuses and cheerful daffodils dotting the emerald grass, anemones waving fiery orange petals at him in greeting. Fig trees heavy with fruit, poplars and cypress crowded close together to shield his glen from the world. Gyuvin is his mother’s most precious flower and so he must sit in perfumed sweetness, coddled by warm air and colorful songbirds and the rich-gold pollen of spring.
He arranges himself in the center of the meadow, taking care with his white clothes, sitting just so.
He notes the angle of his cousin’s sun, golden as the edge of a coin, and turns his face so that he will be limned in light even as he bends over his lapful of flowers and pretends to be busy. He is weaving a crown of blossoms, yellow and pink and funeral-shroud white, and he steadfastly does not lift his eyes from his work.
It does not take long for the lord of the underworld to appear. He cloaks himself in shadows, at the edge of the meadow, but Gyuvin feels the heavy weight of his gaze upon his spine, tracing the curl of Gyuvin’s mouth as he sings a cheery little tune.
Gyuvin is patient, though, and so he does not peek through his lashes even as the sun sinks towards the treetops and his flowers are braided into a circlet. The air cools, bees settling into flowers to rest and his cousin’s moon rising in a wicked crescent grin, but still Gyuvin does not turn to watch the figure creeping towards him.
He is innocent and he is pure and he is so lovely, beneath the lilac and rose sunset, a jewel left unguarded because he believes himself safe.
He has just finished tucking the final crocus into his crown when shadows swirl around him, an ice-cold hand brushing his throat. Gyuvin allows himself a smile, triumph sparking in his chest, and then the meadow he knows so well fades away into darkness.
•••
Ricky carries the boy onto Charon’s boat, handing over two golden coins to pay their passage. He does not look at the cloaked figure as they push out into the river, smooth as glass and darker than obsidian, his attention caught on Gyuvin’s sleeping face.
The god of spring, Demeter’s hidden son, and now his very own captive.
Ricky cannot bring himself to feel regret. Gyuvin is too lovely, his skin kissed gold by the sun and eyes, now sleeping, blue as the sky when he sits in his meadow and sings to the vibrant flowers. He even smells of pollen and green growing things in Ricky’s arms, fingers delicately clasped round the wreath of flowers he’d worked so hard to make.
He counts each of the god’s breaths, marks the tiny freckles spattering his cheeks and the rosebud hue of his lips, the warmth of his body against Ricky’s chest. He is enamored, enraptured, smitten just as he was the first day he stumbled upon the hidden meadow and saw the god among his flowers.
Gyuvin is more alive than any soul Ricky has ever welcomed into his realm and he has coveted the boy’s warmth, his bright smiles and chiming laughter, for months now.
And at long last the god is his.
Stepping off the ferry, Ricky enters his domain without glancing back at Charon.
Dark fields of earth surround him, wizened trees in the distance and a swirling pewter sky overhead, as if storm clouds are gathering—though of course in the underworld, rain never falls and new life never grows. Ricky enters his castle, white as bone, and takes the sleeping god to his chambers, laying him upon silk and velvet as if he is made from porcelain.
It does not take the god long to wake. His smile is not so brilliant here in the underworld’s gloom, yet his voice is just as sweet when he speaks.
“Hello,” he says, sitting up in the bed and looking at Ricky as if he knows him, as if he does not hate him. “This must be your home.”
Ricky, stiff as the dead, perches on the edge of the mattress. “I have stolen you. It is a most egregious crime.”
Gyuvin laughs, and tiny snowdrops bloom between the cracks of the stone floor. “You have not stolen me,” he denies, reaching for Ricky’s icy hand. “You have brought me exactly where I wished to be. Thank you, for this great service.”
Greedily Ricky twines their fingers together, hungry for warmth and the thrumming pulse of spring.
“There are no flowers here,” he explains warily, heat sinking into his palm. “And the sun never shines.”
Gyuvin shrugs, his eyes alight. “I will grow flowers for you,” he says boldly, “and I will be your sun, if only you will allow it. I shine rather brightly.”
Ricky does not understand. “Will you not miss your realm,” he asks reluctantly, shifting closer to spring’s warmth. “Your mother, your meadow?”
Gyuvin shakes his head. “I dreamed of something far grander. My meadow could not satisfy me forever, and I grew tired of pretty things.”
Ricky dips his head, kissing Gyuvin’s warm hand. “Then you may share my realm,” he murmurs, “as long as you wish. I will gladly rule by your side, or wait at your feet. Whichever you desire.”
Gyuvin beams at him, dazzling, and settles the crown of flowers upon Ricky’s pale hair. “You shall have me,” he decides, “as consort, king, and lover. I will be very pleased to share this home with you.”
To that, the lord of the underworld can answer only with a kiss.