She likes his underworld best when it's hard to see.

Once, he kissed her in darkness here, his pale skin indigo-blue as he made her flower in a bed of thorns; she fell in love with a god with skin like marble and a heart made of stone, and she had not minded the dark, the cold.

Now, her beloved has been consumed by a mad desire to make his hill of dirt a crueler mirror of what's above; he lights his underworld in neon lights, builds forges hotter than hell, and Persephone watches as the asphodel she forces to bloom withers on the vine.