Ceres watched with pride her lovely child.
And wondered at the dark sense of foreboding that would not leave her mind.
Brooding, his eyes half closed, Pluto sat on his sumptuous throne. Ornate with jewels - diamonds and rubies, sapphires and amethyst, green jade and blue turquoise - it held the treasures of the world. Decorated with filigree of silver and gold, it dominated the room. Or would have, were it not for its occupant.
Zeus and Poseidon, his brothers, were heroic figures before man and Gods. Strong, handsome, powerful - they were admired, worshipped.
Not so, Pluto.
Face and form hideous to behold he ruled the nether world. Not admiration, nor worship were his. Rather, fear!
His appearance aroused it. He stood huge over the poor supplicants who pleaded for release from this, the eternal prison. A skin of leathery hue, plated in metallic scales that gleamed in light of candle. Misshapen form, twisted, broken. A face of ghastly white, lined with deep marks that twisted with his thoughts, pitted with pock marks. He projected fear and evil. His kingdom reinforced it. The tales and rumors that spread among men, and even on high Olympus, did little to dissipate that fear.
Only his eyes, often hidden by lowered lids, belied his appearance. For they reflected the pity and compassion in his soul.
At his invitation the great castle filled with revelers. Yet, in their presence or alone, Pluto had no feeling of belonging. His was a lonely world, a world apart.
Companionship, friendship, understanding - these were denied him.