Synchronous: Epilogue

By Shahrezad1

Summary: The epilogue in a series of Synlet challenges for Synlet month. I hope you've enjoyed the ride. ~__^ And now for one last bit of humor from our favorite couple, with the help of a very unlikely cupid…

Disclaimer: Syndrome (alias Buddy Pine) and Violet Parr belong to Brad Bird, the creators at Pixar, and the Disney/Pixar company itself. They also happen to own a few other characters, as well.

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Epilogue: Till Death Do Us Part

"O Gods who rule the dark and silent world,

To you all born of a woman needs must come.

All lovely things at last go down to you.

You are the debtor who is always paid.

A little while we tarry up on earth.

Then we are yours forever and forever.

I seek one who came to you too soon.

The bud was plucked before the flower bloomed."

-Orpheus and Eurydice, Ovid/Virgil (Quoted by Edith Hamilton, "Mythology.")

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Pain. It was the first sensation that woke him and the last that left. Day after day it began in the 'morning,' with the rise of a curiously dead sun, and ended with its sudden disappearance every night. And even then no stars shown upon his anguish as tendons and muscles snapped back together, as excruciating as the experiences which destroyed them in the first place.

He didn't know how long it had been likes this--days becoming weeks and weeks crawling into years. All he knew was of a series of shadowy figures condemning him to this wasteland, ghostly fingers pointing to the screech of mythological figures, accompanied with the fact that he was now very familiar with all his own methods of torture and destruction. And, through the scientific method of constant repetition, that electrocution was by no means as bad as drowning, even if the processes of his lollipop bomb were rather earth-shattering.

Omnidroids from the very first on down through the last all brought subsequent 'deaths,' although part of his consciousness remained aware and insistent through successive beatings that he was already dead. Explaining why when the roulette wheel of penance-driven affliction landed on 'penalty by Jet Plane,' it always felt the most painful by far, and the most familiar.

Despite the pain, there was almost a kind of comfort blanket in the routine; he had no need to think about what would happen in the future, but there remained a kind of anxiety at the thought of change. Because when the very worst has passed from experience into memory, what else could come but something even more horrible?

That 'something' came on a day unmarked from any other, the sunset aflame with a blaze of poisonous gasses. It came accompanied by a single click; a snap of fingers which halted the glaring sun in the sky and healed him of his wounds in an instant. The emptiness was a rawness which grated on his already strung nerves, as was the silence. And then, without warning, he had company.

Sight didn't inform him of the new presence so much as the cold ache in his bones that grew unseen. The slow swell of icy sleep curled and spread like plague, inching its way to him on skeletal fingers as deadly quiet made way for the crunch of patent-leather shoes on gravel. A kind of hissing erupted with each step, smoke burning away rock like acid, yet it only curled around Buddy's wrists as he remained prone on hands and knees, gasping for breath.

A fitting position for him to be in when meeting his executioner.

"Are you Pine, Bartholomew?" a dry, droll voice commanded he answer, and despite his rising fear he nodded. The need for human contact--any human contact—overruling in an instant any and all instinct for self-preservation.

Instincts which said not to mess with his new visitor.

"Good," and then the previous snap became a full-out clap of power, and Buddy was no longer on the harsh ground.

Obsidian tiles created a mosaic of war beneath his bleeding hands, the deaths of heroes and tyrants alike portrayed in scenes of black on black within the lines of what seemed like waves of the sea. A border of lighter stones dotted the edge in the form of granite-white lilies, and as Pine dared to pull himself from bended knee a round, low table came into view, made entirely of polished marble, jagged edges protruding.

It gleamed malevolently in the ethereal glow of night-blooming flowers, an ominous sepulcher for miniature figures, its entire surface created to resemble a small-scale battlefield of towers, high-rise apartments, and straw huts.

But even that couldn't hold the deceased's attention for long. Not when he still remained a guest to fear.

"So," there was the sound of a match striking and the acrid smell of smoke, billowing round the room and scented strongly of brimstone. Then when the man's mouth was satisfactorily filled with cigar, he continued speaking around it, "Bartholomew Pine, aka Buddy. Temporarily known as Incrediboy, later to be changed to the alias of Syndrome. Entrepreneur, inventor, scientist, villain. And a pretty darn good one, as villains go."

There was a type of admiration in the lord's tone, and Syndrome didn't doubt for a second that he was a lord, leaving him to wonder what exactly it meant. But before his overwhelmed senses could even try to figure it out, his host continued.

"You murdered half a dozen supers through subterfuge, invention and last-minute monologuing. Got away with it scott-free and still continued as a reputable businessman, selling medical equipment and flawed ammunitions to the government. But you couldn't let it go, could you--you had to get the last laugh; the prime catch, so to speak. And then you paid for it."

As this last phrase topped the pitiful summary that was his life, the ragged man couldn't help but look reflexively up. And then he wished he hadn't, as eyes like burning coals seared through what was left of his soul, and Buddy was finally given a vision of his host.

A figure sat--no, lounged--before him, skin a deathly transparent blue and hair a literal sputter of azure flame. His legs were crossed, the entire length of his form encased in a pinstriped suit the color of midnight and polished shoes blacker than the emptiness of space. A painfully white tie had been loosened ever-so-slightly at the neck, as though originally tied by someone else, with a skull-shaped stick-pin stabbing through its flowing silken cloth.

There was no scythe; no flowing black robes. Only a man with angular, almost exaggerated features, and long spindly hands, like spiders. And in those hands he held a very plain, normal-looking manila folder.

Pine, B. The title read.

A list of his life and accomplishments, all contained in a single, uncaring folder.

"In short, you created mass chaos and caused numerous deaths and then Karma kicked you in the rear, so to speak. That's not to say that I've never done anything similar, though," a dark chuckle, "you and I are more alike than you'd think. But that was definitely one slam bang of a finish, wouldn't you say? Blown up in the engine of one's own ostentatiously designed jet plane--a second for me, as a spectator. But probably a first for you, I'm guessing," a wry smile treated his ignominious death as though it was a minor little 'whoopsie,' in the history of the world, then licked his thumb in order to turn the pages of Syndrome's life. Pausing to shake his head and tsk lightly, "and to add insult to injury, judge and jury gave you a kind of sentence even I find a little harsh--and I'm Death incarnate!"

Hades. The world slithered across Buddy's skin like a snake in the garden of Eden, malevolent and cold. And he knew without a doubt that that was who he was facing, refined exterior aside. The being seemed almost amused by Syndrome's horrified realization of just who he was and how pitiful his own existence was in comparison to the world, but let it slide in the wake of more pressing matters.

"Which brings me to the point of this little venture. You see, I have a bit of a dilemma that I thought perhaps you could help me with, ol' Buddy, ol' pal." The words were followed by what sounded like a soft snap, and like the flip of a switch the title echoed in his brain.

Buddy. Buddy. Buddy.

The part of himself that he thought had died seemed to wake up with the phrase, blinked, and shook itself. Like the slow awakening of a cat, claws indolently stretched. It was an odd feeling, to have a part of yourself fit itself into place after being long-gone. Like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fall into position, or an old retainer made for a much smaller mouth. Still, it settled slowly down on him, pulling his spine straight and focusing his eyes. Unnoticed, the misty clothing he wore mended itself before Hades' gaze, bruises disappearing and hair returning to its 'proper' form, if somewhat shorter.

Then the synapsis connected.

No, not Buddy; Syndrome. So why was he groveling? And what was it that he had feared so much just minutes before? Certainly not death; death had been and always would be his companion and his aid. If anything, death only had made him stronger. And those years of penance were like paper in the wind, sloughing off of Syndrome like old skin while, unnoticed, the god of Death smiled a very devilish smile. Effortlessly hiding the little burst of power he'd quietly created, hand concealed as it was by the folder in his lap.

How could he do such a thing, returning such an evil man to his original state? A conscience would have demanded, if he actually had one. And the answer would have been the typical, because he could.

After all, the man was worthless to him the way he was now. He would be of far more…helpful if he had some of his old spark back. Not all of it, mind you--the Villain would be better off retaining his experience of the underworld, so that he recognized Hades' ultimate power over him if nothing else. But a spineless pawn wasn't an option.

Not for what Hades was intending.

"Dilemma?" the red haired man not-quite asked as the power rushing through him forced him into standing position, using the edge of the low table as prop as he attempted to regain his balance. Then, rolling his shoulders back, Syndrome took stock of his injuries. His nose felt like it had been broken several times and had healed badly, he'd lost a lot of weight (if a ghost could do such a thing) and had regained it in the form of muscle and bony rib. Additionally, the span of his back was a twisted mess of knots, brought on by 'stress,' no doubt, and he also seemed to have a permanent limp, all healing abilities aside. But that, at least, was somewhat to be expected.

"Yes. Dilemma. You see, I have this associate of mine that is trapped topside a good length of the year. While I, unfortunately, am currently trapped by my duties down here. Which is where you come in. You see, I could really use your aid in my latest endeavor."

"Which would be?" the ghost of a man still seemed to be distracted by his sudden reconstruction, and Hades couldn't help but hope he would remain that way for the next several minutes as he officially dropped the bomb.

"I need you to be me."

But unfortunately the villain was smarter than Death had given him credit for, as that got his attention.

"…what?"

"Okay, maybe not be me exactly. More like, ya know, a temp fill-in. For just a little vacation topside, that's all. I mean, you've always helped me out, offing those heroes and all, plus you've got the right mind for the job," then, deadpan, "And the hair. And, as luck would have it, you're dead. What else've you got to occupy your time with, Big Boy? It's not too much to ask for this itsy, bitsy favor, right?"

Silence was the man's only answer, hands carefully examining the length of his remote-controllers, massaging a pained tendon absently. And somehow the solemn reflection of thought was unexpected to Hades, who had watched him on and off throughout the villain's entire life. The thoughtful stillness seemed almost…out of character, and for less than a millisecond the god wondered what he was thinking about.

"Sounds interesting. But what's in it for me?"

"I dunno, I could, ya know, not send you back to Tartarus for some of the stunts you pulled. A type of torture I'm sure you've been enjoying for the past few years. Or maybe I could even cut back on your sentence entirely, how would you like that? Or maybe, just maybe, I could give you the chance to see what it would've been like if you hadn't chosen your rather extreme lifestyle."

A very wry, "I'd rather die again, thanks."

Which somehow simultaneously impressed and irritated Death, much like a certain demigod a few millennia ago, "That can be rather easily brought into being, so you might wanna be careful what you wish for, Buddy. But, well, you drive a hard bargain. How about…your 'maybe' true love."

The dead's expression more than conveyed how he felt about that, and immediately Hades wheeled back around verbally, spindly hands thrown into the air in a shrug as the folder remained in his lap, "…or the rather overused, but tried and true…revenge. And possibly a chance at living again, if you're lucky."

Now that sparked Syndrome's interest, and without meaning to the mortal's eyes lit up momentarily. Hades rolled his own glowing blue coals, but not in a literal sense.

"Revenge? From beyond the grave?"

"And 'Veil' and 'Death's Doorway,' and everything post-mortalish. As Death you'd have the power to take one more Super down into death, just like old times," the carrot was being dangled in front of his nose, and even though Pine knew it was a plot to trick him he couldn't help his curiosity. Even without the threat of Tartarus--he knew his mythology--it would've sparked his interested anyway.

But then again, there was something Hades wasn't saying still…

"And what about you? What would you be getting out of this 'Lucrative' deal?"

"Oh, nothing, really. Nothing at all, just a little visit with the ol' wifey out of season. You understand the evil of mother-in-laws, I'm guessing? I mean we get, what, four months together. Spare a poor god some slack, here."

Sarcastic humor made a rebound back from the dead as the words, 'topside,' 'wifey,' and 'mother-in-law,' rolled around in his semi-transparent skull. Immediately after Syndrome resisted the urge to groan.

It seemed as though he was stuck playing out a repeated of a mythological dating game. With him as the decoy while his host skipped town for a little romantic adventuring.

Just when he thought the afterlife couldn't get any worse.

But the irony of the situation, while a little irksome, actually reassured Pine a little. He now at least knew Hades' motives, and that would make it easier for him to plan his own moves. Namely that of getting out of here. He might even be able to find a few loopholes in their deal, if he was careful. And if not, well…

…he was dead. And even being stuck as death's representative for all time was an improvement on his previous fate. Really, what was the worst that could happen to him?

~/~/~

'How about love?' Hades thought quietly to himself, silent chuckle stifled and gagged under a cool business-like façade. Underworld knew it'd caused him more than enough problems already.

Speaking of which…

"Thank you," supple arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders as instantly the suffocating suit Hades wore became his usual mist-bound robes. She didn't seem to mind the change, though, as she pulled herself close enough to place her lips on the corner of his mouth. Her glowing pink skin was in complete contrast against his otherworldly pallor, the latter as blue as the river Styx was deep. And, allowing her forehead to brush against his, the goddess giggled lightly as his flickering hair took its turn tickling and tangling through her golden curls, like naiads through water. It really had a mind of its own sometimes.

"N-no problem, sugar," he responded, forced to clear his throat as her presence immediately affected him. And didn't it always? Even after who knew how many thousands of years, cupid's arrow still seemed to reverberate in his chest whenever his wife was near. Sending a strange mix of sunny warmth and sensitive shivers straight to the empty chest cavity where his heart was supposed to be; a foreign feeling if there ever was one.

He never thought he'd completely get used to it, but that wouldn't stop him from doing whatever she wanted him to do.

Even if it involved setting up a known villain with his nemesis' daughter, all for a bet between Percy and her cousin Aphrodite.

A known dead villain with his nemesis' temporarily indisposed daughter. He wasn't sure how that was supposed to work exactly, but Persephone had reassured him on the matter, promising that she had the situation well in hand. And, well, who was he to mess with a good plan, even if he was only an accessory and not a player? If it brought mischief and entertainment, who was he to really complain?

Especially if it meant spending time with his lovely wife, she reminded him with another kiss.

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Weeks later…

Violet didn't know how she had gotten where she was. All she remembered was dimly looking up into her partner's face, a girl half her age, after being hit. She didn't even know where the attack had come from--it didn't seem to fit the MO of the Villain they'd been fighting. But then wasn't that always the case? Heroes were straightforward, but Villains always seemed to have an ace up their sleeve. And then, her lashes brushing her cheeks in a slow blink, Violet had felt her eyelids grow heavy in exhaustion. Just catching sight of the tears dripping down Mellony's face before sleep overcame her.

And then, what seemed to be both a moment and an eternity later, the heat of day was replaced with the serene cool of night. In the span of seconds her Supersuit had been exchanged for a silken dress, lines long and elegantly simple, with feet bare on the polished obsidian stones on the ground beneath. A breath of night whispered through Vi's now-unbound hair, ruffling her skirts in the process so that they brushed up against her legs. And the glow of lichen brought a feel of serenity to the altogether frightening change in location, a dark cavern surrounding the heroine's form.

But she found herself unworried and uncaring. A state which normally would have worried her, but at this moment she didn't seem to mind all that much. And where her musings were thoughtless, untamed, and swept to and fro like waves on the sea, her feet were driven and lead her carefully down a rocky path and to the edge of an underground lake. Where a gondola waited patiently, its worn sides rocking ever so slightly with the drift and pull of the tide.

Its captain held no resemblance to any known man, except that of death's reaper himself. But he bore the weight of his responsibility with the fortitude of one accustomed to the job, and as listless blue eyes spanned over his skeletal frame all she could feel was a distant form of pity. Until he stood before her, motioning, and suddenly anxiety was her foremost emotion.

What did he want? What could those bony fingers be gesturing for?

Unconsciously she buried her hands deep within the folds of her tunic-dress. Surprise, however, blinked away some of her stupor as the cold feel of metal tickled her own icy fingertips, ridged edges catching on the lip of her fingernail. Withdrawing the objects within the palm of her hand, Violet stared as she found two bus tokens.

It was all that was left of the world she'd been in before.

Wordlessly the skeleton withdrew the two copper coins from her hand, digits whispering across her skin like November in a cemetery, then beckoned her on. And without a sound in response, she stepped in.

The ride was long and quiet, and through a stupor of thought Vi watched the eddies and streams rush by. At first they seemed like mere wisps of current, until her eyes fell on a hand floating by. Tangles of hair swirled around the figure it was connected to, lids closed as if in sorrowing sleep. And as though looking at an Eye-Spy book for the first time, she was suddenly able to see another figure and another. Brows furrowing in her living sleep, she wondered for a moment where exactly she was. And then, as the slim young woman drew her thin robe around her, her mind supplied an answer from middle school's history classes.

They were the Unburied. Those who hadn't had any funeral rights, and were not lost in the tides of time, to wander forever. She shivered, although somehow she wasn't cold or warm, and turned to look straight ahead through the empty rib cage of her driver, one she somehow knew was named Charon. He, either uncaring or not noticing, continued onward. Plunging his staff into the crowded water's depths without a care for who he stabbed through.

Or perhaps they didn't even sense the boat's passing?

The thought was set aside for another day as they floated through a set of ominous gates, serrated edges withdrawing to form unclenching jaws. Directly afterwards they passed a beast, it's back to them. But Violet noted that while it only had one tail, a snake's head on the end, lightly dozing, there were three necks upon those brawny shoulders and scratches all along the black-stone walls, as though claws were continually scrabbling for purchase.

Downward they continued , ever downward, until upon the proverbial horizon an edifice arose, glaring eyes staring down in judgment at the state of her soul from a skeleton shape. And Violet Parr knew, without a doubt, that this must be her destination. Allowing the river to pull their vehicle the rest of the way, the being which was her guide waited respectfully for her to climb out before bowing once and rowing away. And then she was on her own, a single young woman stand at the base of an endless flight of stairs, a series of fiery blue lamps the only things present to light her way.

Then, again with a mind of their own, her feet began to climb the edifice. And the heroine wondered distantly if she should be worried.

The next few minutes passed as though in a dream as she walked to her destruction (for that's what she knew it must be, despite her lethargic response to the matter), all the way upward into what she knew must be a throne room, the area large, round, and spacious. Pillars bore the weight of the "skull" building's roof, and like beetles they eyed her darkly with twitching darkness. The eyeholes were placed evenly within the space, parallel to a table filled with figures, and between the two open "eye" windows, there was a throne.

Upon-which sat the man of her nightmares.

Violet stared, mist lifted with the coming of an emotional storm.

Syndrome sat upon the seat of obsidian in a navy suit and matching blue cravat, sipping what looked like tea and meeting his nemesis' daughter's gaze. He'd aged well, was the immediate thought, and she nearly shot her own foot off as the idea tumbled into being, his physical age seemingly close to her own twenty-four. The man had thinned out, growing into the breadth of his shoulders while still retaining some stocky muscle.

The bombastic bonfire of hair was much tamer, a wave and flicker of flames slicked slightly back, his sideburns only slightly deeper. And for a moment she thought she saw them literally burn, flaring with a brief burst of heat, but she blinked and the effect disappeared, leaving her wondering if her eyes had been tricking her all along.

What scars he might have had were none existent, like the faint outlines of a coloring book.

The biggest change, however, came from the man himself. The expression that spanned his lantern jaw being calm and cool, if a little arch; mature instead of self-righteous. Blue eyes that had once been electric in their fervor were now lazy as a summer sky; apathetic as he took in her presence and analyzed it in a blink.

And found her lacking.

Then the man started speaking, but she found herself ignoring most of it in the first surge of strong emotion since her original shock. Namely, that of fascination. It was even strong enough to break through the fog of thought that had been pressing down upon her like a fire blanket.

"Welcome to the Underwold. While you're here I will be your host, of a sort. As you may have, or may not have noticed, you are now dead. As such, your essence immediately became the possession of Hades, ie Lord of the Dead, under the Zeus act of pre-time, as of passing through the Erebus gate," the words he spoke were wry and almost flat at times, as though reading a script he'd long-since grown bored of. And at one point, in fact, the Villain even paused to examine his fingernails. As though her existence meant less to him than the state of his own hygiene.

"So please make your way through the Tartarus gate--the one with the numbers on it--and on to the judgment hall. Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus will be there to meet you and will help you settle in to either the Elysian Fields on the right, or on the left the land ruled by Rhad, Tartarus itself. Mind the rivers Phlegethon, Styx and Lethe, as they are not fit for swimming or drin--."

"…Syndrome?"

He stopped speaking. And in the gap an earthquake seemed to sound within the cavernous hall. Dull blue eyes grew sharp and instantly he took stock of her form again, judging and comparing it against some sort of mental list and still not finding her on it. But she could see the thoughts spanning his wide mind, and the lack of answer her presence brought instead resulted in a sharp question.

"How do you know me? Who are you?"

Straightening, the ghostly length of her long robe brightened with a light no darkness could dim; a kind of ethereal glow, like moonflowers and effervescent stars in a midnight sky. And unseen her long hair began floating and curling in waves about her shoulders, diving dolphins flowing in and out of the sapphire strands.

"I'm Violet Parr," and when that name brought no recognition, she said again, "the daughter of Mr. Incredible. You are Buddy Pine, the villain Syndrome. And you're supposed to be dead--I saw you die."

She made the declaration as it really was--just a declaration. But it still managed to sound accusatory, as though it was his fault that her nightmares were becoming real. But his fierce look took no offense as it slowly shifted into something else. A very wicked something else.

"Oh, I am very much dead, my dear…" he stated with no remorse, finally smiling as he drew himself from his chair. And with a start Violet realized that the height difference between the two of them really wasn't so different anymore; not with the growth spurt from senior year affecting the dynamic between them. But it brought her all the more close to his darkening features, something akin to a cat eating the canary infusing him from head to pointed toe.

"…and like I mentioned earlier, so are you. And now you're in my domain," he straightened to his full breadth and Violet found her heart picking up speed, out of fear or something else she didn't know. And then he smiled a shark's smile and she knew it was fear, of a sort.

The fear of the unexpected.

"Welcome to the Underworld."

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AN: I'm really evil. But, well, I guess this is still an improvement over the angst of the previous chapter. ~__^ And there is waaaaay too much description in this for it to be a real epilogue. _

Anyway…

The following information has been collected from a mix of Wikipedia, Edith Hamilton's book, "Mythology," (which I own), and personal research. As a note, I did play around with the order of the gates and things, as Tartarus and Erebus typically mean the same place, but the former is referred to as the prison of the Sons Of Earth and the latter usually just means the entryway to the spirit world (which is included in the "Hercules," move in the form of a skull gate). And since Rhadamanthus's domain remains unnamed, I used Tartarus as its title as well.

If anyone wants to know what the (made-up) bet was between Persephone and Aphrodite, it was that Persephone could make hate turn into love without the goddess of love's help. And it was a bet brought up through Percy's desire for Aphro. to get her comeuppance after the stunt she pulled with Psyche. Namely, setting her up for failure, demoralizing Psyche due to Psyche's beauty, and finally forcing her to brave the underworld in order to collect some of Persephone's beauty for Aphrodite, in atonement for the crime she committed in seeing her husband's face (Cupid/Eros), which scarred him temporarily. A crime which Aphrodite tricked her into.

So in my world, Percy would be understandably ticked off (being the down-to-earth person that she is. Pun intended). Plus, Persephone is probably a big fan of the redemption of bad guys (having married one of them), and is most likely familiar with the chapter before this, in which in an alternative world they would have fallen in love. So she's just a romantic softie at heart, despite owning up to the title of, "Iron Queen," etcetera.

Also, the version of Persephone included here is the Disney version, which appears at least three times in the movie, "Hercules," but only as part of the crowd. She's always at Demeter's side (heavyset woman, red hair, green skin, and a green outfit), and she's dressed in white with pink skin, is tall and thin, and has blonde hair with a big pink flower headdress. I changed her outfit. Also, I created a few small remodeling changes to Hades' place, since probably Persephone helped update the throne room in order to make it a little classier and less like a vampire's bachelor pad.

GREEK:

The 1911 Encyclopaedia Britannica account of the myth:

"As she was gathering flowers with her playmates in a meadow, the earth opened and Hades, god of the dead, appeared and carried her off to be his queen in the world below. ... Torch in hand, her sorrowing mother sought her through the wide world, and finding her not, she forbade the earth to put forth its increase. So all that year not a blade of corn grew on the earth, and men would have died of hunger if Zeus had not persuaded Hades to let Persephone go. However, before he let her go Hades persuaded her eat three seeds of a pomegranate, and thus she could not stay away from him forever. So it was arranged that she should spend two-thirds (according to later authors, one-half) of every year with her mother and the heavenly gods, and should pass the rest of the year with Hades beneath the earth.... As wife of Hades, she sent spectres, ruled the ghosts, and carried into effect the curses of men.""

"This myth also can be interpreted as an allegory of ancient Greek marriage rituals. The Classical Greeks felt that marriage was a sort of abduction of the bride by the groom from the bride's family, and this myth may have explained the origins of the marriage ritual. The more popular etiological explanation of the seasons may have been a later interpretation." (Referring to carrying the bride over the threshold.)

"Of the four deities of Empedocles's elements, it is the name of Persephone alone that is taboo…for she was also the terrible [Queen of the Dead], whose name was not safe to speak aloud, who was euphemistically named simply as "Kore" or "the Maiden", a vestige of her archaic role as the deity ruling the underworld…"

ROMAN:

"The Romans first heard of her (Persephone) from the Aeolian and Dorian cities of Magna Graecia, who used the dialectal variant Proserpine."

"Venus, in order to bring love to Pluto, sent her son Amor also known as Cupid to hit Pluto with one of his arrows. Proserpina was in Sicily…when Pluto came out from the volcano Etna with four black horses…He abducted her in order to marry her and live with her in Hades, the Greco-Roman Underworld, of which he was the ruler."

"In another version of the story, some people believe that upon her abduction, Proserpina ate only four pomegranate seeds, and she did so of her own accord. When Jupiter ordered her return, Pluto struck a deal with Jupiter, saying that since she had stolen his pomegranate seeds, she must stay with him four months of the year in return. For this reason, in spring when Ceres received her daughter back, the crops blossomed, and in summer they flourished. In the autumn Ceres changed the leaves to shades of brown and orange (her favorite colors) as a gift to Proserpina before she had to return to the underworld. During the time that Proserpina resided with Pluto, the world went through winter, a time when the earth was barren."