Mythology

Odysseus bows his head. "That's right. Fame is a strange thing. Some gain fame after death, others disappear. It arouses disgust of other generations, admired by one generation." He opens his wide hands to the side. "We don't know who will survive the memory massacre. Who knows?" He laughs. "Maybe one day even I'll be famous. Maybe my reputation exceeds yours."

Persephone climbed into her husband's lap as if it were her throne, as if she never sat anywhere else. Hades, stiff and frightening to eyes of others, let the flower goddess run her fingers through his hair like any love drunk young man tasting the nectar of a woman's love for the first time. To the world he was an unyielding and merciless king, but for her he was vulnerable and tender.

As much as Hades was ready to have his wife back as the queen of his realm, he would miss mornings like this. Her hair a mess, her limbs askew, her gaze soft from sleep, all illuminated by the sunlight. She was lovely anywhere, and she brought light with her to the Underworld. But when the sun shone on her, Persephone's raw, natural beauty was radiant. He loved that she trusted him like this with her body: vulnerable, exposed, at his mercy.