This the darkness of Hades. A darkness that presses on your very eyes. And more! A darkness that envelopes mind and soul! An unending and solid darkness, not of this world.
This is the darkness of Hades! This is the darkness of the damned!
In Pluto's garden, earth's flowers do not grow. Yet grow there plants.
Strange, distorted semblances of earthly growth, they twist and writhe. They search for a non-existent sun, thirst for never falling water. The roses thorns have, yet have they not the blossoms.
Yet is there beauty.
The mystic asphodel here grows. With blossoms seen, now unseen, hues rainbow inspired. Waxlike and translucent they grow in abundance in this, the abode of the dead. They bloom in the deep night of Hades, their aroma rousing hopeless hope, and forlorn memories. The fragrance clashes with the evil ambiance of eternal misery. Trampled 'neath the hooves of Pluto's chargers, yet they ever rise again. Their strange beauty carpets the pastures of Hades. Their gentle perfume permeates the fields and streams of hell.
In Persephone's garden do gentle streams trickle.
Not so in Hades.
Here flows the Styx, the River of Hate, nine times round the infernal region, dark waters flooded with ancient mysteries. The Acheron, the Mother of Sorrows, carrying in its stream the woes of all mankind, merges with the darker waters of the Cocytus, land of the doomed wanderer. Here even the waves and ripples cry out, and none but Charon dare the fearsome tide.
Phlegethon flows here. Cooling water, water to assuage one's thirst, to cool one's brow?