When the Lord of Shadows Loved
In the shadowed realm where the river Styx coiled like a serpent through the ashen fields of the underworld, dwelt Pluto, lord of the dead. His heart, though cold as the stones of his throne, held a flicker of warmth for a nymph named Mentha. She was a creature of vibrant spirit, her laughter like the trickle of a hidden spring, a rare melody in the silent kingdom.
Mentha, with her eyes the green of new shoots and her hair like the tendrils of a willow, brought a breath of life to the somber halls of Pluto’s domain. He found himself drawn to her, captivated by her vitality, a stark contrast to the spectral shades that drifted around him.
But Persephone, his queen, she who was bound to the underworld by the seeds of the pomegranate, watched with eyes that burned with a chilling frost. Jealousy, a venomous serpent, coiled within her breast, its fangs dripping with icy rage. She saw the way Pluto’s gaze lingered on Mentha, the way his lips curved ever so slightly when she spoke.
One day, as Mentha danced in a glade of asphodel, her steps light as the falling petals of a ghostly flower, Persephone descended upon her, a whirlwind of divine fury. Her voice, sharp as shards of obsidian, echoed through the underworld.
"You dare steal the affection of my lord?" she hissed, her eyes crackling with dark magic. "You, a mere nymph, to presume to hold his gaze?"
With a gesture as swift as the strike of a viper, Persephone transformed Mentha. Her limbs twisted, her form shrank, and her bright eyes dulled. Where a moment before stood a lively nymph, now grew a small, unassuming plant, its leaves a dull green, its fragrance lost.
Pluto, arriving too late to intervene, found only the silent, unassuming plant where Mentha had been. His heart, already heavy with the weight of the underworld, sank further into despair. He could not undo his queen’s magic, but he could offer a small solace.
He breathed upon the plant, a sigh that carried the essence of his affection. And as his breath touched the leaves, a miracle occurred. The dull green deepened, and a sweet, sharp fragrance filled the air, a scent that was both invigorating and soothing, a whisper of Mentha’s lost vitality.
"Though you are now rooted to the earth," Pluto murmured, his voice a low rumble, "you shall not be forgotten. Your essence shall linger, a reminder of your beauty, your spirit, and the love that even the lord of the dead could not deny."
And so, Mentha became the peppermint, its scent a bittersweet reminder of a nymph's stolen life, and the enduring, if shadowed, affection of Pluto, lord of the underworld.
