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He thinks of his gifts as shackles, chains, debts and insurance.
She thinks of them as armor in the underworld, as the dressings of a queen.
Persephone is tired of everyone calling it an abduction.
It wasn’t abduction, it was escape.
It was choice.
Even now, she chooses him - again and again. Do they really think she has no power here, that she couldn’t refuse to go back underground if she really wanted to? They’re foolish. She could stop his heart with a word and escape him just as easily.
If she complains, if she argues, if she resists him -
Well, that’s just their way.
She thinks he likes it, a little. The fight. He pretends he wants someone submissive and grateful, a lady to kneel at his feet and melt in his steel embrace. But that’s not what Hades wants, or he never would have chosen her.
He wants an equal; he wants a queen. A Lord and a Lady of the Underground, well matched.
Everyone gets it so wrong.
She was never that soft.
She was never helpless.
She loved him, and they were young and beautiful and golden-hearted, that much is true and that’s what Orpheus writes his song about. How she enraptured Hades, with her gentle beauty and her winsome heart. How she made him tender and helpless just with a soft look and gentle touch.
But it wasn’t just that.
The truth was the “abduction” didn’t happen in just a moment. It wasn’t just a decision: him wanting her, and then an action: him taking her. The truth is she wasn’t above a little show of strength. She wasn’t above making him try.
People forget she’s the daughter of gods.
People forget how harsh her mother could be.
demeter, resplendent and smiling bengingly behind stalks of soft wheat, her face eternally shifting with each mortal, mortals who would only see her as this: a perfect mother
They forget who her father was, and is.
a terrible god, a great god, a powerful god - but not good. zeus’s heart was a crackling storm and his olympian haven a rigid monarchy
Persephone is at once soft and hard, smiling and terrible.
No one tells the story of how she smiled, a confident curl of the lips, and told Hades he could not have her unless he begged for her hand. How she teased him. How she made him promise her everything in order to take her away. How she saw him down on bended knee before her and asked for a throne, and no less.
She was going to run away all along. No one stays a girl forever, not even the child of Demeter.
Hades gave her everything he had, as she’d wished: he gave her his heart and his throne and his power. He gave her loyalty and a kingdom.
A place so far removed from her mother’s garden, which was a home that was a prison as much as anything else. Her mother’s beautiful prison where Persephone was never allowed to grow up.
But she wanted to be a woman, so she needed an escape.
She wanted to be a queen.
So she needed him.
She loved him. She loves him.
Despite the tension in their relationship now, she knows she made the right choice. That’s why she keeps returning. She’s certain this dance of theirs will play out favorably. They retreat only to come back together. They are what’s eternal in the underground. Lovers come and go and die and are born, but Persephone and Hades are the rulers of them all, forever.
Still, it hurts her, the story of these two lovers.
Eurydice and Orpheus, Orpheus and Eurydice.
She sees a bit of herself in both of them. It doesn’t mean she can save them, or that she even wants to, but it does mean she’s interested in their story. In its outcome.
She tries to turn the tide for Orpheus.
“He’s a fool, but a kind hearted fool, which is more than I can say for most men.” She confides to Hecate one day, hands curled around a cup of scarlet colored tea. Hecate’s speciality. She doesn’t ask what’s in it. Offending Hecate means she visits less often, and as one of the only other people who lives a dual life on the surface and below the ground, she’s invaluable company.
The witch-goddess laughs. She’s always laughing, and it’s never kind laughter. Persephone likes her. Everything about her is honest, even her wickedness.
“I still don’t think you should help him. He’s just another soul for your husband’s collection - and therefore, yours.”
“So says the goddess of ghosts. Maybe he’ll go to your care, if he stays here long enough? If he faces my husband without my help?”
Hecate leans back in her chair, smirks. She’s one long sinuous line, draped in unnaturally red silk. Persephone thinks about how she would have chosen Hecate, perhaps, as her savior and captor, if Hades hadn’t stumbled across her first. That really would have been a scandal for her mother, and the thought gives her some delight.
“I want to help him.” She says of Orpheus, decisive.
“It’s your funeral.” Hecate says with a careless wave of her hand. “I don’t think you can, though, Persephone. No - even you - even you can’t change a man’s nature, and you know what the Fates say about him.”
“He’s weak. He won’t be able to take Eurydice back out.”
“You can’t change it.”
“I suppose not. But it might be interesting, to try.”
“Your own father has been punished for having such hubris as to think he can change Fate, my dear. Better stay out of these petty mortal affairs. They’re not worth it.”
“But he is.”
“You mean your husband? It's worth it, to challenge him?”
Persephone shakes her head. “Not to challenge. To amuse.”
Hecate smiles again, inscrutable.
“Whatever it takes to keep the marriage alive, I suppose.”
Persephone laughs, now. “Alive is a funny choice of words.” She says, and gets up from the table. Hecate’s tea runs through her veins, she can feel it, it makes her head foggy.
Hecate stands with her, kisses her cheek and sends her off with a peal of laughter.
She doesn’t remember the time passing, but she’s suddenly at the door to her bedchambers. Hades is inside, for once, instead of at his office or in the factory.
“What time is it?” She asks him. He looks up, in the middle of shrugging off his jacket. His face seems to shift as she looks at it. Hecate’s potions are strong, but Persephone isn’t afraid. Hecate would never harm her.
“Late.” The voice of her husband, rich, low, washes over her. “You’ve been to see Hecate.”
His hand is at her wrist, and she lets him draw her into the room.
“A little afternoon tea.”
“It’s midnight.”
Persephone laughs, high and musical. Hades slips an arm around her waist. She presses close to him. He is a solid man, her husband, steady as the mountain against the wind.
“You should rest, lover. You know how strong her teas are.”
“No - I came here to talk to you.”
“Did you?”
“I can’t remember. I must have. I want to ask you something.”
“Persephone, you can ask me in the morning. You need sleep.” He runs a hand through her hair and she leans into it. People don’t know, how gentle his touch can be. People don’t understand. He is softer than the velvet lining her shawl.
She lets him sit her down on the bed and watches as he turns away to undress, shedding his work clothes and sliding on simpler fare, clothes that make him look like any other man. Clothes only she will ever see him in. She lays back, smiling.
“She doesn’t want me to ask you.” Persephone murmurs. “She thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“Well, Hecate is a wise woman.” Hades kneels by the end of the bed, takes Persephone’s boots off for her. “But you’re stubborn, and you’re still going to ask. What is it?”
“Orpheus.” The words feel far away from her, and she closes her eyes. She feels the weight of Hades as he climbs into the bed next to her. He pulls her shawl away, only to draw a blanket over her. The fabric is cool and smooth against her skin. It’s rich, like everything in this kingdom.
“Orpheus.” He says in return, an edge to his voice, contrasting the gentleness of his touch. She turns her face towards his, so she can feel his breath on her cheek.
“Be kind with him.” She says. She thinks she says it. Sleep is like the tendrils of some great plant, curling around her, drawing her down. “Be forgiving. Let them go.”
“Goodnight, Persephone.”
“Hades…”
She feels his lips on her cheek, a goodnight kiss. Then, nothing, as she slips into the world of dreams, red-tinged but not frightening. Not to her.
--
In the morning, there is no sunlight to wake up to, only the relaxed expression on her husband’s face as he sleeps. The room is dimly lit by the lamp in the corner, a false idol compared to the sunshine. But Persephone still rises when it rises - even when she cannot see it, she can feel the day’s cycle in her blood.
She remembers asking Hades for leniency for Orpheus and Eurydice, somewhere in the rouge-tinted haze of last night. He didn’t bother to respond. That’s enough of an answer. She likes to preserve her power, push him only when it’s necessary. It’s not necessary, not yet. She’ll let Hades think he’s won this argument, and that she’s let it go.
She gets out of bed and slips on a long robe, a flimsy thing woven with dried flowers. It’s not cold here. She doesn’t need it, with the furnace burning away, but the flowers bring her comfort. Barefoot, she leaves the bedroom and pads down the hall.
It’s a long walk.
At the very edge of the building where Hades keeps his personal quarters, where it just meets one of his factory buildings, he’s built her a little room. The room bridges the gap between the two buildings, but no one uses it as thoroughfare. It’s just hers. After all, even a Queen needs her own space.
Inside Hades has fashioned great, bright lamps - lamps which feed dozens of little plants. It’s a pale comparison to the sun but somehow they thrive. Perhaps there’s enough of her mother in her to care for them, the flowers and leaves and vines, and make them grow like little children.
Hades gave her this piece of the garden she once knew several years ago, after a fight had spun out of control and she was threatening to leave the underworld early that year. He gave her all her favorite flowers, and at the center he’d planted the same variety she’d been holding when they met. She’d been touched, then, at how much he remembered. At the image of him packing dirt into ceramic pottery, filling it with seeds and water, gently coaxing life into this world - all for her. And she knew it was him, too. Hades never would have had his workers in this room, never would let them know it even existed. The very existence of this place - using so much power, frivolously, strange and natural and so clearly an expression of his love for Persephone - it’s an open wound. It’s a vulnerability.
He built her a weapon against himself, all to make her stay.
She couldn’t help but be impressed. Pleased. In love with him, all over again.
They’d made love then, in this cramped little greenhouse, leaves falling on them as they knocked into pots, the smell of flowers so strong in the air it was like she was living two lives at once - both the present and the memory of their first time, lying in the dirt with petals and pomegranate seeds around their bodies, watching the wings of the blackbirds above them as he pressed his mouth to her collarbone.
She loves this room.
Which is why she’s not pleased to find that it’s been disturbed. She can almost smell it in the air, the shift, the sense that someone else has been in the room.
Is in the room.
“How did you get in here?” She asks in a loud and clear voice, and there’s a gasp, light and musical. It almost makes Persephone cringe. It sounds so innocent and sweet.
“I’m sorry.” Eurydice steps forward, moving carefully from behind a large fern, eyes downcast. She looks respectful of Persephone, cowed by being caught out of bounds, but she’s not scared. She’s not even scared of Hades. Persephone almost admires that, but it’s a grave mistake. A little fear keeps one going here in the Underworld, and too many people make the mistake of not fearing her.
She’s no mother-goddess. She could have been, at one point in her life, but falling in love changes a girl.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Persephone says clearly, no threat to her tone yet. She eyes Eurydice calmly. The girl is so small, frame thinned out from the winter, curved shoulders sloping into indiscernible lines beneath baggy factory clothes. Persephone remembers: she was pretty, once. Up above. But everything is more beautiful when it’s fed by sunshine and love.
“I - I found the door, at the back.” Eurydice attempts to explain.
“That should have been locked.” Persephone frowns, sweeps past Eurydice to check the door. The trail of her robe disturbs several plants, sending the perfume of flowers wafting through the air. She checks the lock, fingertips prodding cool metal, and finds it bent just slightly. “You know how to pick locks?”
“I was curious.”
Persephone doesn’t turn around. “That will not do you any favors here, sister.” She says, tone neutral. She’s found it’s more of a threat than fire or ice ever is - cool disdain, neutrality, keeping everyone from knowing how you truly feel - that is where the power lies. That is what scares people, when they know you’re wearing a mask but they can’t see beyond it.
Persephone moves a planter in front of the door, securing it from any further unwanted visitors. She turns and moves back towards Eurydice, who looks a little nervous, but like she’s standing her ground.
“This isn’t for you.” Persephone says. Her eyes sweep over Eurydice. “You should not be here.”
“But - it’s so green.” Eurydice says, almost helplessly. “It’s so beautiful. To see this -”
“Beauty isn’t free.” Persephone cuts in. “And this place belongs to me, and me alone. You’re awfully impudent, aren’t you, to believe you deserve anything you like, anything you set your eye on? You don’t know what I’ve done to earn the things I have, sister. All you’ve done is abandon a lover to the cold.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“No? Did you fuck my husband as well? Is that the sacrifice you made for your place here? Well, having regrets now, aren’t we - missing the surface?”
“No - I would never - I didn’t.”
“Oh, I know. He would never.” Persephone smiles, then, not a hint of warmth in it. “But you would have, if he’d asked you. But all he asked of you was a contract - your life and your voice belong to Hades. And therefore, they belong to me.”
“Persephone -”
“Stop. I know what you all think I am. A prisoner, like you - with the taste of freedom on my tongue, enough to give you all some hope?” Persephone sighs. “I’m not an innocent. There are things I wish I could change, but I’ve always known who he is. And I am his equal. I beg you not to forget that.”
“But on the surface, you...you were…”
“Happy? Carefree? Unwilling to return to him?” Persephone shrugs a shoulder. “I know how to enjoy myself. And sometimes I hate these walls. This factory, keeping me from the natural world…” She runs a hand over velvet-soft petals. She’s not sure why she’s telling Eurydice all this. Perhaps it’s because Eurydice reminds Persephone of herself, or because Eurydice is harmless in the grand scheme of things. She could never be this honest with Hecate, or even Hermes, without the knowledge that her secrets would be kept in their immortal heads forever. “But Hades is my husband. And this is my home. I demand just as much respect as he does.”
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“Whether you did or not isn’t my concern.” Persephone locks eyes with Eurydice. “I know you regret what you did. I know you miss him.”
“Of course I miss Orpheus.”
“You will see him again.”
“What - how -?”
“He’ll come for you. It’s only a matter of time.”
“He can’t. Hades would never let him, unless he signed a contract like mine, and Orpheus couldn’t endure it down here. He’d wither.”
“He’ll find a way, Eurydice. That’s what love is like.”
Eurydice presses her lips together, considering. “I wish he wouldn’t.”
This surprises Persephone. “You don’t want to see him?”
“Of course I do! But he can’t come here. I’m trapped here, but I don’t want him to be, too.”
“Hmm.” Perhaps there’s more to mortal love than Persephone thought. A self-sacrificial element that she was sure was no more than a myth. Something akin to selflessness, though she wouldn’t have previously described Eurydice as selfless. But hunger makes people do things they never wanted to do. “I’ve asked Hades to be lenient with him.”
“With Orpheus? You did that - why?” Eurydice frowns. “Do you love Orpheus?”
Persephone can’t help it, she laughs, head thrown back. “Oh, goodness, no. He’s just a boy. I married a king, and I’m loyal to him. No, Eurydice. Maybe I just don’t want to see another tragedy.”
“Another -?”
“You’re not the first pair of young lovers, dear. And you won’t be the last.”
“That’s not what I’ve meant. You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”
“I knew you were clever.” Persephone smiles, plucks a rose from a nearby planter, hands it to Eurydice. “Not clever enough, but here. Take it. This one for free.”
Eurydice frowns, looking like she wants to press Persephone for more answers, but she wisely decides against it and takes the flower.
Mortals are all fools. Some less foolish than others, but they’re all blind to the bigger picture. They don’t realize that they are a cycle that the gods are watching on repeat. They don’t even realize they have gods, most of the time. They can’t comprehend the magnitudes Persephone has seen, the life she’s lived.
It’s easier for them to pretend this is some factory, or river, or whatever expression of the underworld their minds can cope with. To Persephone, the Underworld is just an ever-changing Kingdom of souls, the reality of which no new name or wallpaper can really change. It’s a land of the dead, or the dying. And no one gets out.
Not unless Hades lets them.
What the mortals never understand is that Hades can’t let his souls free without consequence. The laws of death are strict, even with the gods. To disobey them, even if one has the power to, is to accept punishment.
Persephone wonders what consequences the Fates have in store for them this time.
She leads Eurydice out of the greenhouse quietly, presses her arm once and closes the door firmly behind her. She’s not sure what Eurydice will take away from their encounter, whether it be hope or more pain, in the knowledge that she is not the first young girl trapped like this.
She moves back to the center of the room, she waits.
The front door slides open.
“You have alerts to tell you when this room’s been disturbed, don’t you?” She asks.
“Of course. It’s off limits to anyone but you. Who was it?”
“Eurydice.”
Hades hums, noncommittally, as if he was expecting that much.
“You asked for a favor yesterday, in regards to her and her erstwhile poet.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it a favor, asking you to go gently on them.”
“That’s exactly what it is, and you know that.”
Persephone approaches him then, and lays her hands on his arms. She smiles up at him, and he watches her with a steady gaze.
“I’ll consider it.”
She runs a palm tenderly up his arm, cups his cheek, and brings him down to her for a kiss. His hands are light on her waist. She feels like a queen, a wife, a young and romantic girl. This is why she married him: for these moments when he reminds her that she is alive. That she is more than an immortal witness to tragedy, but a woman with her own agency and her own story. That she is a part of his story, too, a story that will be told for centuries to come.
Persephone hopes it’s a beautiful story, in the end.
Maybe a little sad, but beautiful all the same, like all the best poems.