Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of its characters. I also do not own Proserpine or Pluto. All italicized lines come from Bulfinch's Mythology, not me.
Taste of the Immortals
In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which screen it from the fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground is covered with flowers, and Spring reigns perpetual.
In the city of Gotham, there is an asylum which stands in the midst of a dank and dark mess of chaos, where criminals and crazies alike roam free, and blood runs thick as water through the sewers. It is here where Darkness reigns, where the Underworld meets the surface world. It is here where mortals become gods.
Here Proserpine was playing with her companions, gathering lilies and violets, and filling her basket and her apron with them…
Dr. Harleen Quinzel's eyes flickered from her colleague to the inmate in the cell immediately behind her. His skin was chalky white, and his hair unnaturally green, like thick blades of grass, made all the more vibrant in contrast to the stark gray of the walls around him. His eyes, green as his hair, stared straight back at her, holding her in a kind of trance. Yet it was his smile, that permanent, ruby-red masterpiece adorning his face, which really got her attention. If at all possible, his smile seemed to widen as he looked at her. What shocked her more was when she realized that she was smiling back.
…when Pluto saw her, loved her, and carried her off.
That shred of sanity she'd held on to, that little voice that told her that this was wrong…those things didn't exist anymore. All that mattered was him. She was sure of it now, more sure than anything she'd ever thought she knew before. Those ideas of how she should act, what was expected of her, and even her own ideas about right and wrong…all were ripped from her as easily as when he'd ripped her nametag from her blouse, the first time they'd made love in her office. She was his, and she knew it. More importantly, she was his, and he knew it. Harleen Quinzel was no more.
The ravisher urged on his steeds, calling them each by name, and throwing loose over their heads and necks his iron-colored reins.
Harley drove the stolen car out of the asylum's parking lot, The Joker in the passenger seat, throwing his head back in laughter at the beautiful harlequin sitting next to him. Her hair had broken out of the its tight bun, and it was now waving wildly behind her, whipping at her face as she drove recklessly over the road, swerving uncontrollably between lines of traffic. It felt so freeing, so carefree, so wonderful…
When he reached the River Cyane, and it opposed his passage, he struck the river-bank with his trident, and the earth opened and gave him a passage to Tartarus.
Harley's eyes flickered to the man sitting next to her, his bright, green hair shining in the faint glow of the street lamps lining the sidewalks. He turned to her, his toothy grin never wavering, and held her gaze. It was in that moment, with their eyes locked in an unbreakable vice and sirens blaring all around them, that she knew that she was his, and he was finally hers. With a knowing smile, she sharply turned the wheel and stepped on the gas petal, the waves of police cars and people dressed as bats forgotten in the exhaust fumes. Safely away from danger, the two sped off, into the darkness of the city of Gotham, away from the ones who dared come between them.
It was them and only them, two gods among mortals, leaving the rest of the world behind, to descend into the Underworld, where blood flows thick as the juice of pomegranates, and death is a staple on which they thrive. Guiding the stolen chariot, the two gods rode off, the captor and the prize.
And only they knew which was which.