The sun is scalding hot, as if Apollo somehow knew that Laurent would choose this day to rise to the surface and is taunting him for it. The Underworld, Laurent’s domain as the God of Death, isn’t necessarily cold but it is without the inherent warmth that comes from anywhere the sun openly touches.
Laurent sighs and tucks his platinum hair over one shoulder to give his neck a chance to cool. He’s been toying with the idea of cutting his hair, but the child spirits seem to find him less intimidating with flowing locks and they deserve the most comfort of all the souls that make their way to the Underworld.
He reminds himself that he is a God, and thus can deal with idle discomforts like the sun, despite his tightly laced clothing. He winds a path through the trees, thick and brimming with life, and pauses every now and then as he finds his path. Eventually, he cuts through a particularly full patch of flowers and ducks around a heartily growing hedge, and then he has found his goal.
Persephone is sitting by a gentle stream, laughing loudly with the Naiads that dance around him. Laurent sighs. He’s never had much patience for Naiads, and never spoken to the Harvest God beyond pleasantries at Godly events. His general impression of Persephone is that he’s flighty and dimwitted. This is going to be painful.
“Persephone,” he says, moving towards him. “I have come to speak with you.”
Persephone turns his head, and it is a picture of heavenly beauty as flower petals fall from his dark curls. He smiles when he sees Laurent, as if they are friends. “Hello,” he says. His voice is as rich as the soil that grows his flowers.
“Hello,” Laurent says back. Persephone’s brown, sun-burnished skin is distracting. And there is a lot of it on show - the God is completely without clothing.
“You should call me Damianos, at least,” Persephone says, “If Damen is too informal for you. Are we not beyond titles by now?”
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