Hades does not know how to love halfway. Aphrodite must have decided to jest at him, bestowing this torturous gift: to feel to the point of frenzy, to the ache in his bones—the steady rhythm of your breath, wherever he is. The whole pantheon is a witness; he feels no shame kneeling before you, pressing his lips to the marks of your bare feet on the cold floor. At this moment, he is no god, no the king of the underworld, but a pitiful boy tasting anguish for the first time. And when he does not feel you near, he writhes—a seething, molten sensation in his solar plexus burns out all his entrails.

How can one accuse him of an unwittingly sinful act? How can one condemn a soul who knows no other way to keep you near except through theft? His heart beats against his ribcage—a cornered animal, a prisoner striving for freedom—for you, his dearest. Just a little more, and it tears free from his chest, rolling to your feet as though that cursed pomegranate that binds you both eternally.

And it is funny how the goddess of love can turn everything upside down with a single berry: no matter how gently you try to extract the seeds, you still crush them. Just as with love, which turns from a bright idea into tormented games of the mind.

But can a prisoner release their jailer? Do you not clutch the same chains in your own hands?

Even Cerberus now coils beside you, a twitching mass of fur and devotion. His coarse muzzles snort in unison, golden pupils narrowing in the dim hall, watching your every move. You reach out a free hand, and one of the heads rests its heavy skull on your palm, as though pleading: Don't stop.

Hades flinches as your nails graze his temple—not from pain, but from how nakedly it exposes his trembling. You are on the throne. He kneels at your feet. Now there is only the rustle of hair sliding between your fingers and the faltering thud of his heart—no longer against his ribs but on your kneecaps—its begging: Don't leave.

“Weary, dear?” He murmurs into your garments, lifting his gaze to meet yours.