Hades/Persephone-esque AU idea where Dirthamen is the one who carries Spring.
Flowers bloom beneath his step and feathers shed from his bones where they grow and stretch and carry a warmth that has soaked him to a point that is nearly numbing to him now
Lost and left in his thoughts beneath the sounds of the constant buzzing bees and the half-dreams of his consciousness as he spreads out into other pieces-fluttering wings that spread across lands without the obvious trails he’s cursed to leave; a freedom denied beneath his mothers watch and thirst for control few others seem to notice
always the bridesmaid and never the bride; Spring is welcomed and greeted and perhaps even anticipated, but quickly forgotten with the arrival of Summer; the greater and grander and golden half of himself. The one who brings parties and days that stretch out into territory otherwise seized by the night. The one the world Truly loves.
Selene, burdened to care for the people in her world of Death. Misunderstood but never alone, with a world only becoming more and more crowded with each setting sun. Heart breaking every time she finds a face that hasn’t earned its place; unwrinkled and tainted with youth. Time stolen by the fickleness of Life; sent to her before, before, before.
The shock and imbalance when their streams finally cross; she had thought to see the sun just once, just once she had sworn. a single beam to remind her what warmth is supposed to be, and instead to find this man who carries life on his shoulders, who births and creates with every breath and step and still somehow chose to stay so, so still. Whose breath stops when he sees her and she worries that she has ruined this, ruined him with her presence; Death ruins all that it touches, she knows, she knows.
the relief when his breath returns and the world moves again and the impulsive instinctive rush of greed when she grabs him to take back to her home. warmer and fonder and greater than any sun, surely.
Regret that isn’t regret when she remembers herself, remembers that she has stolen him from the world above, the world she had ached for only moments before he had become all that she desired, all that she craved in ways her tongue was not talented enough to place.
relief, again, when he assured her he did not mind her impulsiveness.
Time, together. Learning and yearning and conversing and nursing wounds that neither could find until the other. Joy and hope; flowers for the dead, color in the dark, and a new kind of warmth in their bed.
Panic and guilt rising surely and steadily as their home becomes more and more crowded, far more quickly than it should. More young, more thin; the fickleness her own, this time.
life blooms beneath her mouth and hands and she does not want to give him back; the earth will still spin without.
She has had so little of her own for so long and he has smiled more in Death than he ever did in fields and meadows, found his own relief as she plucks the weight of years from his shoulders. Cycles unfinished for centuries that he carried for so long; he stands straighter now. Stronger, and surer, and it suits him so well, how could They be wrong?
Summer, who cannot understand his brothers preference for Death and darkness; who never understood why Spring preferred the rainy afternoons to the bright bursts of mornings, and does not understand him in this. Who sees only that without Spring, Summer cannot happen. Too rough and too hot and too impatient to care for the buds still trying to push through the snow, who nearly floods the world in his impatience.
Death, who nearly takes Summer from the world above herself when she discovers him sneaking into her domain and attempting to steal her Spring.
Her husband, whom she loves and protects with the fire he has shown her she has always carried deep beneath.
Death, who cries when Spring agrees to return to the earth to quell the fury of his brother. Who leaves her with the dead and the crowds and the silence and an empty space in their bed.
Death, who does not smile when people arrive with seeds in their hands; flowers and herbs and pomegranates. Who does not realize what the gifts are meant to be, sorting and forgetting them in places around her home with an aching sort of hopelessness. Nothing grows in her home. Life does not reach here.
Spring arrives on his own two feet as snow begins to fall on the world above; their home bursting in sudden blooms and color and she forgets herself to greet him to find him to follow the foliage and this time she is the one who is breathless when she sees him; the only one she is happy to see in her home, always.
It always hurts when he leaves, always feels like dying and she would know.
He sends her gifts in his absence; finds those near to her door and gives them seeds to bring with their coin. things already living cannot cross her threshold, but he finds potential is enough to coax them out when he comes near.
half his life spent in waiting for the other half to arrive is a sweet sort of longing he finds suits him far more than the flower crowns the muses keep trying to force on his image
and on nights when the world is too warm and the heat is unbearable and he needs the relief of his wife and the balm of her touch...well, it seems only too fitting for the fables when the ravens flit through her gates beneath the shelter of a moonless night.
only feathers and pomegranate left behind in the light of the rising sun.