The flowers always died in his presence.
He had only ever seen the bright and brilliant colors of meadows from a distance.
Never had he been able to feel the soft petals or waft the sweet scent of spring.
So he tried to capture it. Tried to encapsulate what had eluded him for so long.
But you can't capture the willing
The flowers were all she had ever known.
Surrounded by shades of purples and pinks, longing for depth beyond the lovelt vanity of bouquets.
Never had she known the mystery of the darkness.
She was entranced by it. Tried to understand the veil she wasn't able to cross.
The land below was calling for her.
She ate willingly of the bloody pomegranates he gave.
To be the queen of her own understanding
To keep the light that has never been in his reach
To bring life to the realm of the dead.
The first time a flower sprung in the underworld, it was white. A color not native to the earth.
Without the vibrant colors of the world above, but not withere and dried out like the ones he'd always known.
A flower both dead and alive.
As they walked together, the flowers bloomed in their shadows. Of different kinds as they found new ways to love each other and new things to learn from one another. All white.
They made gardens in the land of the dead.
As they seeped into the world of the lving, humans assigned them the names of flowers familiar; daisies, lillies, and hydrangeas as they discoverd these new hues.
But these beautiful petals in shades of white are those of the underworld, of the living and dead monarchs (gods).