@eurydice-wait-for-meâ ⼠for a starter
 The King of the Underworld    does not make surface calls these days. Does not tread upon the ground up above   where the mortals walked,    where his wife brought life, where she brought joy.  It was sacred ground, now-- a place of reverence   where only she was allowed-- it felt all too old,  all too disrespectful to flatten the earth beneath his shoes   & allow old habits to threaten at the edge of his mind. It was early this year, he knows. Far too early-- still the leaves are green,   still the flowers bloom, still does wine flow from cup to cup, the richest in the vineyard,     a plenty for the living. He shouldnât be here âtil fall. He shouldnât have come-- (& yet, hadnât he been invited? Persephone herself had urged him up above.    A party, perhaps, or someone to meet,      or maybe, even, she wished to spend a day or two like they had   before their union. Alone, in the garden, a man & a woman,       nothing more.) He does not know. He dare not guess. The train behind him lets out a hiss of steam,  & eyes dark as judgement day fall upon a familiar sight,  upon something that nearly knocks the breath clean out of him. A bar. Feet move automatically, dragging him away from his meeting spot,   until he stands just outside, with his hands hung by his sides,   & his breath a quiver upon his lips. The boy. Was he in there?  The boy.... what would he say? (& Hades finds himself unable to walk away.) Fate, perhaps, glued him to the earth.     Or perhaps the Fates themselves, who filled his head with familiar doubts   & agonizing fears.  (It seemed he was in the wrong place at just the wrong time.)
