@singofus whispered: Long hair flowing behind him like caught in an invisible stream, Hypnos glided towards his wife's temporary home at the Crossroads. Having spent time with his twin, and his siblings, he was glad they were all alright and reassured them that he was okay. Apparently it really was some time that he'd been out. Though after a while that thought had him really worried about Maggie. Thanatos had already told him that she wasn't doing well, and others seemed to confirm it. Considering how he'd been when she'd...well he knew that the Maggie he saw wouldn't be the one he remembered last. He approaches the door and had reached for the handle but realised maybe he should be a little more...withheld. Just in case she thought he was an illusion. He now went around the back, assuming she'd have some kind of garden but otherwise wanted to carefully look for her. "Maggie? Love?" He says softly but his words carry effortlessly through the air. (Hades 2 verse)
maggie is kneeling in her garden, a poor substitute for her gardens in her own realm. the vines are brittle and dry, thorns longer than natural, sprouting from flower beds that, from above, resemble bodies curled in the earth. among the black and brown thorny vines and branches, she tends to a few small poppies - small as in short, and small as in tiny petals. they look more like clover than poppies, so distorted in this garden of hallucinations.
she tends to them one handed, the other pressed to her stomach, desperately clinging to the pale auras she feels, the little ones too small to travel without a parent. the flickers of connection as proof they hadn't succumbed to the stress of being separated for so long.
her hair is long and wild, curls frizzy and dry, not speaking to a time of self-care. there's loose suggestions of braids closer to her face; perhaps someone had once braided her hair, an act of kindness for a madwoman.
at his voice, the vines and branches arch like snakes, watching him, orienting to his position in her garden. she sobs, though no tears fall; she has run out of them long ago. instead, she squeezes her eyes shut, hoping in vain not to succumb herself to her own wayward powers.
“he is not awake,” she whispers, trembling fingers brushing over the petals of the tiny poppies. they grow in two clusters between the two flower beds; one with a larger, darker center, the other with a pinkish tinge. the auras she felt, however briefly, before all came to darkness.
the only gardens she could make for her children, before she could no longer return home.
another sob claws its way to her throat, and she takes a shaky breath. her hands cease to tremble, her mind ceasing to ache. he is not awake, and she misses him terribly, but he will return from work soon. in the meantime, she must care for their children.
she returns to gently caressing the petals, checking for any harm or imperfections, her own aura splintered in such a way that she cannot feel her husband's very real presence.
