Hades's Arc

Chapter 5 of 5

Hades had the gown and the crown. He had Elizabeth's yes. But he had no place to bind her. The ritual was permanent. A wrong step, a wrong ground, and the binding could break her soul instead of saving it. Hades walked his halls and found no floor worthy of it. So he went to the ones who knew the shape of every thread of fate. The three women waited by the black water of the Styx. They were old and young at once, dark robes hanging still. One held a spindle. One held thread. One held shears. Hades had feared them since before the first mortal died. Even a king of the dead grew quiet before the Fates. They did not turn when he came. They already knew his question. "You want the binding done," said the one with the thread. "Ask where." "Then tell me," Hades said. "My halls are stone. Nothing grows there. The pages named living ground for the rite. I have none." The one with the shears smiled. It was not a kind smile. "There is one place below where life still holds," she said. "The stone arch wrapped in ivy. Flowers bloom at its feet though no sun touches them. Perform the binding under it, or the rite will tear her from you." "You must bind her there," said the first. "Under the arch. No other ground will hold two souls at once." Hades knew the place. An old stone archway stood at the edge of his domain. Green ivy climbed its columns. Small flowers opened in the dark. He had passed it a thousand years and never once looked. Now it was the only door. "There is more," said the one with the spindle. She turned the wheel once. Thread wound tight. "You will bind her hand to yours. Use a cord braided of cypress, green and brown together. Nothing else will bear the weight of two lives." The third Fate lifted the shears near the thread but did not cut. "Whatever she feels under that arch, she feels forever," she said. "You know this. Bring her to the arch in joy, or in fear, and you seal it." Hades bowed his head. "I will bring her willing," he said. He left the water and went to the arch. Ivy shivered as he neared, as if it knew. He set his hand on the cold stone and felt warmth beneath it, a small pulse of living ground. Here the binding would hold. Here Elizabeth would become his queen. He gathered the cypress fibers the Fates had named. He braided them slow, green over brown, until the cord was thick and strong. He hung the gown and the breathing crown beneath the arch. Everything was ready. Now he had a place. Now he had only to bring Elizabeth down to it, alive, and give her the choice she could never take back.