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“Take the man of spring-time. The one that some call Persephone, some call Andrew.” His father commanded him, via dreams and whispered taunts. “Rid the world of reincarnation. Do this, and you will please me.”
Nathaniel—or, as he had grown more affectionate of—Neil sat up with a gasp.
His chambers were cold and lifeless.
He hated how Chronos held onto him in this way: he was the lord of the Underworld, for fuck’s sake. His father was obliterated into pieces almost intangible, yet he remained unsatisfied. It seemed to fall to Neil’s shoulders to satisfy the Titan, and whilst every fibre of his being recoiled at the memory of his father’s abrasiveness and cruelty, he could not deny his father his dying wish.
“Alright.” He whispered into the silence.
No one answered.
*
Andrew laid in the soft grass, letting it carry his weight. He was sure to brush his fingers across the swathes, appreciating every blade beneath him.
He understood his nature wasn’t exactly sensical for what he represented, but spring-time wasn’t merely Valentine’s day and blossoming gardens. It was perseverance. It was strength, an endurance of cold and brutal winters, only to return refreshed and anew.
And by the gods, did Andrew persevere.
There wasn’t a tribulation he hadn’t seemed to overcome. Past gods had taken advantage of him, his simpering mother went and offed herself, passing the title of Demeter to a young Spanish boy by the name of Nicky a few centuries ago. The man had deemed himself as Andrew’s substitute mother, he supposed, and certainly fucking acted like it.
Then there was his brother, the demigod Aaron, who rejected his godly half and became immortal anyway. Andrew wished they’d all just died and left him alone to appreciate his occupation, but no. They filled his time with meaningless pursuits and commented upon how easily he angered, how his violence was antithetical to his godly purpose, how his apathy was nothing like the warmth of springtime’s sun.
He merely reminded them with thorns in their palms that nature was nothing to take lightly. They would leave him alone for a few weeks, but they always came back.
Andrew let his head loll, watching as a butterfly with wings of acrylic drips rested upon a dandelion by his hand. His brother and cousin were returning from their travels to vineyards in the southern hemisphere. He’d enjoyed his two months of quiet, but, as always, they were promptly ending.
Spring was quiet, gentle and comforting for Andrew. He wasn’t sure that others would describe him that way, but it didn’t matter. He existed, and thus spring existed, and thus the cycle of life and death continued onwards.
The cycle. That was all Andrew represented.
“Take a meaningful glance at the sky, Persephone.” It wasn’t often someone called him by his proper name. “You may never see it again.”
Before he had even been granted a moment to thank the grass for taking his weight, his limbs were caught and restrained. Colour leaked from his vision, and he fell into an all-encompassing slumber.
*
When Andrew woke, it was cold. Dark. The surface he was resting upon was along the same theme, and he realised that he was sleeping on the stone-tiled floor. His wrists were chained together with what had to be obsidian, weighing upon his joints like hunger did to his stomach.
He wasn’t in a cell: He was simply chained to the floor of one’s bed chamber. It was extravagantly large but oddly empty, with only a bed and two candles of black flame upon either side. The bed was made, and Andrew realised that he was not alone.
“Good,” The man said. He was hideously tall, with three eyes and hair spiked towards the ceiling. “You are awake. It is regretful to chain you in such a way, but the Lord insisted, in case you were difficult. Shall we greet him?” He bowed slightly. “I am Cerberus, but most know me as Matt.”
Andrew rose an eyebrow. “Are you not meant to be a dog?”
Matt merely laughed. “Only when necessary. Quickly, up now.”
Unsure of how long he had remained unconscious, he took time to steady himself once upon his feet. The cuffs linking his wrists together were grossly heavy and his hands were almost numb when he finally arrived to the Lord’s Court.
Andrew had, of course, assumed it was Hades behind this barbaric capture. Andrew had never met, nor seen Chronos’ final and most fearsome son, but he had heard nothing good. He spoke with spitfire and fearlessness. He was reckless, often merciless. His reclusivity and lack of hospitality were somewhat famous within the murmurings of Olympus’ gossipers.
Andrew supposed one would be like that if they were stuck, ruling the Underworld.
Andrew had also supposed the man would be a little taller, but Andrew wasn’t known for his assumptions being correct. He, of all people, should understand height did not equate to power.
He sat in a tall throne, composed of skulls brushed by fire. He wore simple clothing: jeans from the Aboveworld, a grey t-shirt that had faded with time, and black boots. The only thing that connoted his worth was a black circlet, resting gently upon his fire-licks of auburn hair. A robe and helmet were hung carelessly on the back rivulets of his throne, and the black fire Hades was known for surrounded his chair like a halo.
“Hello,” Andrew said, tone betraying how he was exceedingly bored of the whole debacle. “Lord Hades of the Underworld.”
“Please,” He said, leaning forward. “I would prefer Neil.”
“I detest the word, please.” Andrew shifted on his feet: The chain between his wrists tinkled, reminding him of his position. “And I would prefer that I wasn’t captured, but we can’t all have what we want, can we?”
This man would kill him in a heartbeat. Andrew challenged him like he wanted to die.
Hades'—Neil’s—eyebrow arched.
“If you would be so kind,” Like gods were ever kind. “I’d like passage to the Aboveworld.”
“No.” Neil said. “You’re a man of my court now, Persephone. You obey me, and I have dictated your purpose already.”
“For how long?”
“A full circle of the sun. Then your release may be negotiate, if you are a respectable guest throughout your term.”
A year.
Andrew could almost consider it a vacation.
“Well,” He started. “You might as well begin by calling me Andrew. What is, exactly, the purpose you deigned for me?”
The Lord of the Underworld waved a hand: A second throne appeared, of golden armrests and soft red cushions, next to his own upon the dais where he sat. Simultaneously, the cuffs vanished from around his wrists, and his robes were refurbished. “Plea—Here. Sit. The Court session is about to commence.”
Andrew took a moment to survey the odd situation he had found himself in. He had a chance, perhaps, to flee now. But where would he go? No one had ever escaped the Underworld, not even a god. Andrew would not be the first to attempt it: Nor would he be the first to succeed.
Slowly, he climbed the steps and took his throne.
It was comfortable.
“Enjoying your kidnapping, thus far?” Matt smiled, taking his place at one end of the Court’s long table in preparation for other members to come wafting in.
Andrew didn’t answer, holding his chin high.
*
The first irritation Andrew discovered was obviously his inability to eat, or drink. Enormous, luxurious feasts were often spread out in front of him, but he couldn’t touch a thing. If he did, he would remain permanently trapped beneath the ground, most likely losing his title of Lord Hades’ pet and becoming the average idiot, meandering through the fields. It was a strange position to be in.
The second irritation was the lack of sun. It made it impossible to decipher the time, and Andrew couldn’t trust any of the clocks within Hades’ palace grounds. They all were slightly off from one another, and whilst the king of the underworld seemed to have a strict internal clock, experienced with a lack of sun, Andrew continually struggled with this shift.
The third, and most confronting irritation, was how careful Neil seemed to be.
Andrew made mild protest to sleeping in the same room as the god of the Underworld: The next day, he was granted a separate room of his own. He made an offhand comment about missing the flora of the Aboveworld, and within hours, Neil was guiding him to a private garden of luxuriously rare and exotic plants, where skeletal ravens perched in the branches and sung their haunting songs.
When it was cold, Andrew was provided with plenty of layers, none being derived of animal skins like that of the Underworld’s inhabitants, including Neil himself. When it was warm, Andrew was given cotton strips of fabric that he was able to wind around his forearms.
He wasn’t sure how Neil knew of his scars, but so long as he was not confronted, he would play along that everyone was none the wiser.
Whilst he hated the idea of being perceived as weak, or as insignificant, his strange, compulsory vacation was—
Not awful.
“Tell me of Nicholas.” Neil said, walking through his garden with Andrew at his side. “Of Aaron. You must truly despise them if you’ve found comfort here.”
Andrew held out his hand, and a withered crow landed upon his finger. “I do not despise them. They simply don’t understand the concept of personal space.”
Neil let out a small huff, which Andrew had come to learn was his laugh. He always made sure to smother it before it could unfold properly, just like he swiped away any smiles. It wasn’t characteristic, Andrew supposed, for the lord of hell to be joyful.
But it wasn’t characteristic of the god of springtime to commit matricide, so it wasn’t like Andrew was in a place to make judgement.
“Do you miss them?” Neil inquired.
“I tell myself I don’t.” The crow flew off. Andrew went back to brushing his hands across the trunks of wrinkled Aspen trees as they walked past, enjoying how they quivered fervently under his hand. Everything responded to him, warmed to him, in a way humans and gods simply couldn’t.
Except Neil, it seemed. He’d warmed quickly, and without question. It was almost endearing.
“I’m sure I’ll wish I’d damned myself down here as soon as I am forced to reunite with them,” Andrew muttered.
Neil’s shoulders seemed to draw upwards “Don’t joke of such things.”
Andrew slanted him a gaze. “Was your purpose in kidnapping me not to keep me for as long as deemed possible?”
“Right.” He nodded, most likely to himself. “Yes. Your fate still rests on your ability to withstand the temptations of the Underworld if you ever wish to return.”
“I know.” He grumbled. “What I wouldn’t do for a glass of water.”
Neil gazed at him pityingly.
They finally arrived to the centre of Neil’s garden, where Andrew rested himself against the trunk of the ever-fruitful pomegranate tree, the ripe fruits dangling from every branch. Andrew basked in the comfortable warmth of the day, the intoxicating scent of paper reducing to ash in a flame. Whilst never clear, like a Cornish breeze, the air down here was never foul. Tobacco, ash, molten rock, wood-fires and hearth-stones wafted daintily on the drafts that carried through the cavernous space.
Neil rested by him. In this garden he allowed himself to be unreserved, his expression relaxed from that typical furrow in his brow, closing his eyes and trusting the walls of his courtyard to protect him from vengeful spirits.
And vengeful spirits were there plenty. Andrew had witnessed Neil’s mercilessness time and time again, but it was always where it was deserved, and never more than what was necessary. He was diplomatic and logical in terms of justice, and it was one of the things Andrew had grown to appreciate the most.
Yet, it never seemed that Neil truly lived for himself.
“I do wish you’d tell me who asked you to bring me down here.” Andrew allowed his head to lean back against the tree.
Neil grew tense once more. “What lead you to that idea?”
“Neil,” Andrew sat up. “Do you take me for a fool? You claim me from the Aboveworld, and by the Old Creeds, I must stay and do your bidding for a full circle of the sun. But you have given me a throne, a room, a garden, and asked for nothing more than my company and occasional slithers of advice. It that how a true captor behaves?”
“You are a god, like myself, Persephone.” Neil reminded him.
“I am no god when compared to you, Hades.” Andrew shifted onto his knees, tipping Neil’s chin upwards with a finger. “Neil. Won’t you tell me?”
His head hung low once more, Andrew’s fingers slipping to hold the back of the man’s neck. They said nothing for a moment, until Neil moved to the stand.
“We must make ourselves presentable.” He straightened his clothes. “I’m afraid our months of peace have drawn to a close.”
“Who dares visit the Underworld?” Andrew demanded. “And don’t think I won’t have my answer, my lord.”
“I hate it when you call me that,” Neil said, smoothing away that smile once more as he directed Andrew back towards their connected chambers. “Is there truly anyone else who dares visit hell, Andrew of springtime? It’s my brothers, of course.”
*
Andrew gazed upon himself in the mirror, which he did not often use. It had been a long while since he’d truly considered his own appearance, content to let his hair grow long and simply braid it, complacent to allow a Shade to shave his jaw and neck, wearing the same style of garments day after day.
He shouldered a black cloak, dressing in solidarity of Neil, and donning a crown of black-thorned roses atop of his hair, which he had trimmed properly once more. He slid his feet into sandals, another rare occurrence, and he checked his brooches were secure before making haste from his chambers.
He was the last to arrive at the Court, but the visitors had yet to grace themselves with their presence, so he swept by the members of Neil’s advisory to sit upon his throne. It had changed considerably in the approximate six months after his arrival: Flowering vines and thorns twisted around the golden legs and arms, often reaching out and crawling across his skin as he sat.
It was comfortable. It felt natural, to sit at Neil’s side.
Andrew didn’t know what that meant, so naturally, he ignored it.
“Did you cut your hair?” Neil asked, absently.
Andrew arched an eyebrow, and the man’s cheeks pinked.
“It’s very elegant.” He said, before looking forward with anticipation.
The doors burst open with a flourish of wind, and the King of Gods stormed in to address his brother with a ferocious anger, palpable in the electricity and ozone in the air.
“Nathaniel, your attention-seeking continues to out-do itself.” Zeus, the god of the skies, pointed a finger at his brother where Neil sat upon his throne.
It was Zeus and Poseidon that looked alike. Both were tall, and rather strapping, with waves of black hair. Whilst Poseidon was tanned, more lithe, and had astonishing grey eyes, Zeus’s irises of green and broad shoulders defined his menacing presence.
They only shared a mother, after all. Neil’s father was not someone to mention, lest you wished to elicit Neil’s wrath.
The god of the skies, the god of the sea and the god of the dead all stood in one room. Or, more commonly referred as, between the gods, Kevin, Jean and Neil. Nathaniel.
Andrew had never heard someone of Neil’s court call the god that name. He imagined it wouldn’t go too kindly.
“Welcome, Kevin, Jean.” Neil said dryly, bottling up his irritation. “I hope your journey was comfortable.”
All members of the Court arose out of respect of the two visitors. Andrew stayed seated, and Neil snuck him a knowing glance.
“This is ludicrous, Neil.” Kevin snapped. “What on earth were you thinking?”
“I have no time for your childlike petulance.” Neil flapped his hand lazily.
“We have come all this way.” Jean said, quieter. Cautious. “Rather than send Hermes—Allison. Though she does seem to enjoy your company. Could you not spare us a moment free of your scathing tongue?”
“A moment.” Neil promised. “You banished me here and you come here of your own volition: Thus, I dictate every fibre of existence that surrounds you. Don’t test me.”
“Demeter has caused such pernicious droughts with his worrying and fretting that many a human are dying.” Kevin came forward. Nicky, Andrew thought. “He is unable to console himself without Andrew. You took him unlawfully—“
“And there is nothing to undo that. It’s a year, Kevin. Demeter will learn not to take springtime for granted. Gods can die too.”
“You are insufferable.” His brother claimed. “Have I mentioned that?”
“Repeatedly.” Neil said flatly. “Andrew stays and completes his sunless year.”
“I still don’t understand why.” Jean said, calm enough to ask the proper questions.
“Am I not allowed to act of my own volition? He demanded. “Am I so grossly incapable that you deem all my actions of someone else’s?”
“Yes,” Kevin growled, just as Poseidon urged “Sometimes.” They both looked at each other.
“He had six more cycles of the moon until he may free himself, if he lasts.” Neil sighed, cracking his knuckles. Members of his Court winced.
“What has Nicholas done?” Andrew inquired.
“Locked himself away and vowed to not return until you have.” Jean said.
“It’s very dramatic.” Kevin added.
“Obviously. Nicky has a flair for the dramatic.” Andrew crossed his legs upon his throne. “Tell him I’m well.”
“You are?” Kevin remarked.
“Truly.”
Neil’s brothers eyed him with trepidation.
“If that is all,” Neil said icily. “You’re dismissed.”
Kevin bristled at this dismissal, but couldn’t do anything as Matt chaperoned them from the Courtroom. Neil seemed to relax, slumping into the skulls that built the back of his throne.
“Being the object of hatred must be exhausting.” Andrew murmured.
“You’re telling me.” Neil said, reaching out absent-mindedly. “Yes?”
Andrew paused, before nodding. Neil’s obvious request for consent was as perplexing as it was necessary, and a strange and unfamiliar warmth began curling in his chest. Neil reached out once he had been granted permission and brushed a lock of Andrew’s hair away from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear.
It was so oddly affectionate that Andrew found himself frozen. The members of Neil’s Court had turned away out of respect.
When Andrew had first been captured, he’d had a glimmering fear that he would act as Hades’ concubine for a year, that the god heard of Drake’s adventures and took similar action. Andrew was equally frustrated by the thought of having to comply, regardless of his wishes, simply because he was a patron of Hades’ house, and he was unable to deny the lord of his wishes.
Then Neil went and made him an equal, and had not touched him barring the fleeting moments of a hand across the shoulder, at the wrist, across his hip.
Perhaps Andrew had imagined Neil’s affections. The king himself didn’t seem too aware of his own behaviours, afterall.
“Dismissed,” The god called, adjourning the council. Andrew didn’t move.
“Neil,” He tried again, when all was quiet. “Why did you bring me here?”
Neil closed his eyes, hand dropping from where it caressed the shell of Andrew’s ear. Without an answer, he stood, and left Andrew alone, sitting upon his makeshift throne and wondering why destiny had plagued his existence with such ridiculous complexities.
*
Water was rare in the Underworld, but what Andrew wanted, Andrew got. It lead him and Neil to adventure through the Crevasse, searching for a waterfall that would perfectly capture the light.
It wasn’t long that they found the pool Neil remembered, walking in companionable silence. Andrew passed the drachma from one hand to the other before tossing it through the water.
Renee’s image appeared.
“Iris.” He called. “It’s me.”
She sighed with relief. “I was wondering when you’d call.” She nodded, somewhat apprehensively but respectful all the same. “Lord Hades.”
“Iris.” Neil echoed. “I hope you’re well.”
“And I, you.” She smiled.
“Is it true?” Andrew asked. “Kevin came dicking around about Nicky. Has he truly isolated himself?”
Neil paced slightly away from the conversation, brushing his fingers across the stiffened layers of igneous rock that painted layers of time across the Crevasse’s walls.
“Unfortunately. He is a little better than he was after your capture—an inconsolable wreck for weeks, he was—but he is still rather reluctant. It’s a work in progress.”
Andrew muttered profanities under his breath.
“It’s just his flair for dramatics, Andrew.” Renee assured. “He’s alright, so long as you are. And you are alright.”
“Yes,” He said, glancing towards where Neil had a black fire lit in his palm as he observed small details by his feet. “I am.”
“I am glad.” She said. “I will pass on the message.”
Andrew nodded: Her image faded from the water’s spray.
“Shall we return?” He asked.
Neil glanced at him before ducking his gaze, nodding silently.
Andrew didn’t pay it any mind.
*
He stood at Tartarus’s edge and felt anger simmering beneath his skin. It was an ancient anger that Andrew was unable to rid himself of, something that defined him and every one of his decisions.
He remembered being younger, a child, an unknowing child, and letting Drake woo him with malicious smiles and hungry eyes. Andrew hadn’t understood mutual consent, and thus he obeyed every word that the man spun, adhered by every tale’s warning, and never fought the man when he demanded Andrew to satisfy his sexual desires.
Hands wrapped around his neck. Aching back. Bloodied sheets. Aaron would care for him, confused by Andrew’s newfound abrasiveness and isolationist tendencies.
Then Andrew had attempted to take his own life, tearing at the skin upon his wrists and forearms with hate-fuelled ferocity, and plummeted the earth into a years-long winter whilst he recovered in seclusion, fearful and angry and ashamed.
Drake was sent into Tartarus’ sprawling pit by his own demand, a necessary end to a horrific childhood.
Whispers drew Andrew closer to the edge. If he had been in a period of his self-loathing, perhaps he would feel compelled to throw himself into the abyss.
As it was, he had merely four months until his untimely return to the Aboveworld. It seemed like a waste to have endured the thirst and starvation, the sunlessness, the enticing and amiable company of the lord of the Underworld, just to damn himself even further.
As if summoned by thought, Neil approached him with slow, careful steps.
“You were very close to the edge.” Neil murmured.
“It reminds me of what fear feels like.”
Neil looked at him. “I thought I would see you here earlier that this. As a spirit, rather than a hostage.”
“As did I.” The scars were hidden beneath their cotton strappings, as usual, but Neil looked to them and understood, without question nor demand.
Neil was most perplexing like that.
He took Andrew’s hand by the wrist, and gently pressed it up beneath the thin layer of his cotton t-shirt. Beneath it was the hideous landscape of someone tormented and tortured.
“I understand,” Neil said. “I know. You don’t have to hide your past here.”
It made sense, then, to fold into Neil’s open embrace. But he was the god of the afterlife, and Andrew was the god of reincarnation. It couldn’t make sense. It wouldn’t make sense.
And yet, Andrew let himself savour in the fleeting moment, eyes closed as he pulled Neil’s head to the crook of his shoulder.
*
“Persephone,” Matt called, rapping a knuckle upon Andrew’s door. “Lord Hades requests your audience.”
Andrew craned his neck to gaze upon the door, curious. It was late in the Underworld’s form of evening and he was beginning to settle himself into bed, stretching out across his linen sheets and ridding himself of his thoughts.
It was rare that anyone disturbed him after he retreated to his room. In fact, this would be the first moment.
Matt knocked again, so Andrew hauled himself upright and drew on a robe, answering the door.
“Tell him I’ll be a minute.” He muttered, rubbing his eye.
Matt grinned in that wolf-like manner of his. “Don’t keep the king of the Underworld waiting.” And with that, he left, sauntering down the corridor with a tune coming from his puckered lips.
Andrew redressed himself, pinning his drapery with the brooches Nicky had gifted him eons ago, before slipping free of his chambers and shifting down the dimmed corridors.
Neil’s room was unlocked, but Andrew knocked before entering, so as to warn the man of his arrival. Neil was sat upon the edge of his bed, fiddling with a small charm that hung from a silver chain. It was his black fire, contained by impenetrable glass, the perfect elliptical shape for resting at the hollow of someone’s throat.
Neil stood at Andrew’s appearance.
“You called?” He inquired.
“I—well, yes. Here.” He held up the necklace. “For you. No curse, nor debt attached. It’s a gift.”
Andrew’s very own black-flamed hearth. Andrew let him attach the clasp, fingers brushing gently against the exposed skin of his neck.
Andrew’s fingertips flitted across his exquisite jawbone, tilting his head down.
“I hate you.” He decided, resolutely.
Neil was unfazed. “As one should hate their captor, yes.”
But was Neil truly his captor?
Andrew kissed the man. He couldn't help it.
He was more lively than his kingdom in every sense of the word, skin hot, sucking in a quivering gasp as his hands fisted themselves in his own garments, avoiding touching Andrew with such perfect restraint that it caused Andrew’s heart to ache.
He had never met a god of such caliber. One that responded perfectly to Andrew’s every ministration, one that understood suffering so acutely, one that regarded Andrew with utmost respect.
When they parted, Neil’s cheeks had gained a high flush and his eyes—his glorious, ice-blue eyes—revealed his dazed composure.
“Attend to me.” He whispered.
Andrew was bound by old creeds to obey Neil’s every word, but he would be lying to himself if he insisted he didn’t want to. Neil wore, as usual, his simple shirt and simple trousers, and whilst Andrew enjoyed relieving him of these garments, he entertained the fantasy of ridding Neil of his royal robes, a pulled tie causing swathes of fabric to drop to the ground.
His silk sheets were decadent under Andrew’s fingertips, and Neil let him bow over his exposed body whilst fully dressed, like Andrew held any semblance of power, like he wasn’t trapped in the Underworld as a victim.
Neil made it so easy to forget that.
Andrew was pretty sure he was the only man to have ever conquered Neil’s bed, and lavished in the way his lean body arched and elongated after the fact. His scars were faded with time, distorted by muscular development and growth. The smatterings of freckles, the trail of hair down his navel, the irresistibly delicate wrists and fingers culminated to something so beautiful that Andrew almost couldn’t bear to look at it.
Neil didn’t dare touch him, but his ghosts’ hands felt like slick oil upon his skin. He couldn’t bear Neil’s presence any longer. As he retreated, Neil only gave him a quizzical look, not questioning Andrew’s reluctance aloud.
“Good night, Hades.” He said.
Neil settled into his pillows, looking marvellously ravished. I did that. Andrew reminded himself.
“Good night, Persephone.”
With his gifted black hearth, and Neil’s desperate kisses upon his lips, he retreated.
*
It continued like that for weeks. Months, perhaps. Andrew lost track of time again, simply because he couldn’t care for it. He took Neil to bed every night and let the images satisfy himself afterwards in the privacy of his own chambers. He let Neil’s fingertip trace the cuff of his ear, and took to grasping Neil by the wrist, by the back of his neck. Often, he found himself sitting beneath the decadent pomegranate tree with Neil’s head pillowed in his lap, letting his fingers comb through those infernal curls.
Andrew had not brought up who had cajoled Neil into capturing him, so long as Neil did not bring up his departure. It was cruel that as soon as Andrew had found a rhythm, had found peace, that he would be torn from it to continue his duties Aboveground.
Even worse was the knowledge that his Hades would be criticised and punished for his capture, when it couldn’t have been Neil’s desire to do so.
He didn’t want to leave, but if Neil were to force him to stay, the retaliation would be unjust and cruel. It was best that Andrew returned, for both of them.
His favourite crow wandered over, nuzzling like a cat against Neil’s cheek with a titter of its song.
“It senses your sadness.” Andrew said. “Your exhaustion.”
“Sleep doesn’t come easily, now.” Neil admitted. “It never did, but—now more than ever. Prophecies and visions and disorder and needless suffering jolt me from my weak dozes.”
“You are withholding the truth from me.” Andrew frowned.
Neil sighed. “I try not to.”
Andrew brushed his fingers across the sharp curve of Neil’s cheekbone, and wondered when their peace would be sullied.
“You should not have brought me here.” He said.
Neil closed his eyes, as if to prevent tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. “I know.”
*
It was the eve of Andrew’s departure. His fate had been decided: His behaviour had granted him his freedom. He’d not savoured in a morsel of food, a droplet of drink. He would walk free from the Underworld in the morning, greet his brother and his cousin, and never see the fields of lost souls, the black-lit candles that lined the palace corridors, the ghastly beautiful branches of the trees in Neil’s garden, or the blackbirds that perched upon them.
He was sorry to leave. He had relearned many a different emotion and state of self in Neil’s subterranean kingdom. Tranquility, sorrow, empathy and censure.
He continued like it was any other day, but there was a tinge of desperation to their kisses as they fell into Neil’s bed. It was the same dance they’d done every day, but Andrew was astounded to discover it never grew old, that the caress of Neil’s knuckle and his cries of ecstasy sent shivers down Andrew’s spine every time.
Andrew lingered a little longer, sighing into Neil’s feeble kisses and relaxing into the careful hands upon his shoulders, in his hair.
Don’t leave, Neil mouthed silently into Andrew’s jaw.
And for the first time, Andrew didn’t want to. Didn’t feel the need to. He relaxed downwards till he found himself laid beside Neil’s languid form, letting his fingers trail up and down Neil’s side. A cold draft swept into the room, so Neil fumbled into a soft robe before nestling against Andrew’s side once more. Andrew let Neil’s head rest upon his chest, and watched with unreservedness as the king of hell fell asleep to the unruly palpitations of his heart.
He couldn’t sleep like this, but he was the furthest thing from tired. Instead, he combed Neil’s hair and gazed into space, content to ignore the fact of his departure.
In the early hours of the morning, he dozed off: An impossible but true occurrence. He would have dwelled upon it for hours upon wakening, except he found himself in Neil’s bed, cold and without the man himself present.
Andrew placed an up-turned hand onto Neil’s pillow, onto where his body had curled amongst his sheets. All warmth had leaked from it, and the lifeless mattress and its silken sheets suddenly revolted him.
He clambered to his feet before marching back to his room with a strange urgency. It wasn’t the first time guards had witnessed Andrew come from Neil’s room—nor were they allowed to judge the behaviour of two gods—but the time that had passed and Andrew’s sleep-rumpled state suggested something far more intimate, in every way, shape and form.
He quickly dressed himself and went in search of Neil, to question why he’d left, to see if he had gotten himself into trouble, to say goodbye—it didn’t matter. Andrew had such a burning need to see the man that his hands shook with the urge, the black hearth within his necklace pendant pulsating like that of a second heart.
The throne room was empty, not a single guard nor advisor milling about. It was early, but there was never an empty room in the Underworld. Matt, the hound who could sense one’s confusion a mile away, did not appear. Andrew grit his teeth and, not for the first time, wished he had his knives to arm himself properly.
He found himself, as always, wandering through the garden. It always took a little while to reach its centre, but Andrew carried on with a quick pace, sensing the garden’s fear. The birds were silent and the leaves shook with apprehension.
“Finally, he joins us.”
Andrew’s anger rose in his chest like bile to the throat.
The foul Malcom monster was stood above Neil’s figure menacingly, a ferocious grin upon one face and cool indifference upon the other. At their feet lay Hades, a crumpled heap, and for a moment Andrew thought he was dead.
Neil’s hands were chained behind his back, linking his wrists and ankles together. He seemed otherwise unharmed. His head rose up at the presence of another being and distorted with agony. “Andrew, no. Leave. You must—!”
“Absolutely not.” Lola said as she kicked his limp frame, her lips stained red with blood. “I always play with my food before I consume it. Savour every bite, you know. Isn’t your pathetic little spring-bringer cute, Nathaniel?”
Romero let out a cold laugh. The two-headed being stepped over Neil’s lifeless form—what was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he fighting?—to approach Andrew. He ducked and avoided their clumsy swings, nipping through the garden’s nooks and crannies. He knew every blade of grass in this garden. He had the upper hand.
Neil let out a blood-curdling scream where he was curled upon the floor.
“What are you doing to him?” Andrew demanded as the Malcom monster charged towards him.
“Us? Nothing.” Romero sneered. “His father’s very disappointed in his failure to comply with his wishes. Useless runt. Brought you down here, ensnared you for a year as your father wished, but didn’t have the heart to finish the job.”
With a careless flick of their hand, Andrew was flung into the trunk of the pomegranate tree. He slumped down, and the Malcoms assumed he was subdued enough to turn their attention onto Neil. Neil cried out for Andrew, but couldn’t control his own body with his father controlling his mind.
“Useless runt.” Lola echoed. “I will savour it when our Lord possesses us and finally rids the world of little Junior. Caused enough hassle, haven’t you, Nathaniel? Cleaning up, you call it. You’re simply throwing the most resourceful of us into Tartarus to rot.” Andrew was sure that when she said resourceful, she meant the most sadistic.
“Good.” Neil gasped, struggling onto his knees once more. “That’s where they’ll stay.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Andrew watched with thinly-veiled horror as the two heads of the Malcom monster began talking simultaneously with a haunting, echoing quality. Their eyes were emblazoned by red fire, the veins beneath their skin running gold.
“Father,” Neil murmured. “You’ve returned.”
“Not quite. I will eviscerate this body to ashes in a matter of minutes: They are loyal servants, the Malcoms, but too weak.” He said. “You certainly strung the fibres of my being far enough that I will never be able to regain my true form. However, I will most certainly take pleasure in replacing you within yours.”
“No,” Neil croaked.
“I asked one thing of you, son.” Nathan bent down to tilt Neil’s chin upwards. “Rid the world of reincarnation. Of spring. And you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You, the god of the defeat, couldn’t defeat your own desires. Pathetic.”
Neil’s head flung back as he shrieked. Welts formed on his cheeks as blood spilled from cuts on his arms, his wrists. Andrew could not see a weapon in the Titan’s hand, and yet he was carving Neil to pieces regardless.
Neil’s scream dug into Andrew’s chest: He pulled himself to his feet, grasping onto the branches of the pomegranate tree. Neither Hades nor his father noticed his movements.
A supple fruit was pulled from its branch: With shaking hands, Andrew tore it open, and fisted the first pocket of seeds that he could.
Nothing had ever tasted so sweet, so divine, as those seeds. He dropped the fruit to the floor, garnering the attention of both Nathan and his ruined son.
“He didn’t fail.” Andrew said, spitting six seeds out into his palm and offering them to Nathan. “The Aboveworld has been ridded of springtime. Now, leave.”
“Andrew, no. No!” Neil croaked. “You didn’t—“
“It’s too late.” Nathan laughed, grinning across two faces and speaking with two voices. “You’ve done well, my son.”
With that, the body off the Malcom monster and Neil’s restraints spontaneously combusted, leaving nothing but a smoking pile of ash that was carried off in the warm breeze.
“Oh, Persephone,” Neil whispered. “What have you done?”
*
“Andrew!” Nicholas cried, a weeping mess of eccentricities and dramatics. Despite being on opposing sides of the River Styx, Andrew could smell him: The slick scent of rain after a summer storm, the crisp wheat harvests of late July. He wore his characteristic jean overalls and his straw hat, and clutched at Andrew’s brother with desperate hands.
“Hades,” Kevin called. “What is the meaning of this? What happened to your face?” The scars had faded with the god-like tendency to heal within moments, but the remnants of Neil’s father would stay visible forevermore.
“Neil didn’t call you here.” Andrew said, stepping forward. “I did.”
Kevin glanced at Jean as they shared a frown.
“Neil didn’t take me unjustly. He’s still under the ministrations of Chronos.”
There was a collective pause at the name.
“Chronos no longer exists.” Athena said slowly, stepping forward from where she stood beside Iris. Danielle and Renee were their commoner names, but neither were particularly fussed about it.
Andrew always forgot how much he missed Iris until he saw her again, her pastel hair, her gentle smiles and the subliminal didactic purpose of every visit.
“Almost,” Neil said, almost too quiet to hear. “I did my very best to obliterate his being, but he had some sort of grasp upon me. I struggle to fight it.”
“And he told you to capture Persephone.” Hermes guessed, her interest captured long enough to neglect fixing her nails, her hair.
“And kill him.” Neil agreed. “But I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. So he possessed the form of the Malcom monster to rid me.”
There was a collective discomfort at the mention of the two-headed beast.
“It was my sacrifice or Neil’s.” Andrew said. “So I consumed six pomegranate seeds. The old fucker vanished as soon as his purpose was complete.”
“You what?” Nicky shrieked. “Andrew!”
“No springtime?” Hermes pondered. “No, that won’t work. It simply won’t.”
The gods of the three realms gazed upon one another. It was them who orchestrated the creeds, the rules by which all gods and men lived by, but if one exception was made, then others would follow, and chaos would ensue.
“Neil,” Andrew murmured. “The law is the law.”
“I can’t let you stay.” He whispered.
It was tragic. Neil had come to clung onto Andrew, had truly learned to care for him and favour him above all else. It was why he had to let Andrew go.
“He simply cannot escape without consequence.” Kevin argued. “There would be chaos. Debts and sentences must paid to keep order. To make an exception for Persephone would lead to the destruction of our existence.”
Andrew gazed upon Nicky, who finally opened his eyes. He was such a sorrowful man that Andrew had to look away: The pain in his gaze was simply too potent to withstand.
“But to have him stay is to play into my father’s ploy.” Neil argued.
“It’s chaos either way.” Dan advised. “Neither option is strategic, nor viable.”
“Commentary is not a solution.” Jean said wryly.
“A compromise,” Matt suggested, winking his third eye at Andrew. “He ate six seeds, one for every month he should stay in the Underworld.”
“Yes,” Dan murmured, gazing at Cerberus with newfound appreciation. “Yes. The seasons will fluctuate with his presence, and it is neither complete freedom nor complete absence.” She looked between Zeus, Poseidon and Hades. “I agree with the mutt. It is the most logical compromise.”
“It’s Matt.” Matt supplied. Athena made a face. “But thanks.”
“So it is decided.” Nicky made a squeal of relief, clapping his hands together at Zeus’ proclaimed acceptance. “Andrew will split his time between the Aboveworld and the Underworld and foil Chronos’ meddling plans for chaos and destruction.” Zeus stood straight once more. “Shall we agree upon it, brother?”
“This is the most cordial agreement we have ever decided upon.” Neil said, with a hint of laughter to his tone, as he composed a bridge to meet with Kevin in the middle. They shook hands.
Jean looked to Andrew with an offered hand. “Come, now. You must be desperate for some fresh air.”
“Not quite.” Andrew said. “I believe my coronation is to be scheduled soon, is it not?”
Neil looked at him, baffled. “What?”
“You didn’t think I would stick around to meander by your side, did you?” Andrew shook his head. “I already have my throne and my crown. All I need is my title.”
“Quite.” Neil’s smile was blindly and Andrew's heart faltered. Yes, this is how I would like to spend eternity. Basking in the light of that smile. “Well, husband-to-be. Shall we?” He offered his arm. Andrew nestled his hand into the crook of Neil’s elbow as the crowd watched, baffled.
“We shall.” Andrew said.
What a compromise indeed.