Work Text:
Persephone is counting the hours…
The ceremony has always been the same. Since her first tumble down into the underworld, and her return to the living world above, every year on the equinox she comes for her. She meets her at the banks of the deathless river, takes her hand to plant a crisp kiss to the kid-skin gloves, and leads her gently onto their little boat. A gift from Hephaestus himself– something of a wedding gift, though her mother would never acknowledge it. The hull sleek and black, the handle of the oar worn smooth over years of use. They’ve been doing this dance for millennia; every year the same. The same smooth strokes through the waters of death, the same subtle scent of decay in the air, the same discomfort as Hades adjusts to having Persephone in her space once again. It’s not as though she hasn’t missed her wife, hasn’t counted the days for her to return just as much as Persephone has, but she is a solitary creature by nature and the stiffness in her spine will take days yet to relax. But for now, on this timeless journey into the underworld upon the river Styx, Persephone is content to lounge in her wife’s lap, comforted from the chill in her furs and petticoats.
They don’t speak; they don’t have to. There’s time yet for Persphone to spin her stories of Spring and Summer, describe the taste of fresh berries and ripe peaches for Hades patient ears. There are days before them for Hades to list the changes she’s made to the underworld in Persephone’s absence, describing the upkeep needed to keep the land of the dead going without chaos consuming it. There are nights for them to relearn each other all over again. The red curl of Persephone’s hair, the dainty flick of her wrist, the curve of her waist. The curtain of Hades ink black hair, the softness of her cheek, the long line of her legs. They sit in silence, the anticipation settling in the air around them. Soon they will be home, soon they will be at peace, if only for a little while.
Here, on the river, is a neutral ground. Here, her mother cannot pluck her back into her loving arms and return her to her home above. Here the gods cannot intervene, having convinced themselves that the underworld is a sort of prison for Persephone. Here, Persephone is safe with Hades, and for a little while, they are truly alone. It is her favourite day of the year. For a few hours she is granted blissful silence next to her love, the warmth of their bodies keeping out the chill. The snow has fallen early this year and her breath ghosts before her face. Hades, as usual, seems unbothered by the cold, not bothering with gloves or furs of her own, but every so often her eyes flit down to observe Persphone, adjust a fur here or an edge of her coat there. Though she may not care for her own comfort, she cares deeply for the comfort of her wife. As the night settles in around them, the air colder by the minute, Hades draws Persephone closer to her, shifts the lamp providing their guiding light closer to Persephone’s face for a touch of warmth. Little things to make their journey more comfortable for Persephone, so used to the warmth above.
It isn’t cold exactly, in the Underworld, but there is nothing like the warmth of the sun to warm them in the dark winter days. But it always takes a few days for Persphone to adjust, to feel comfortable again in thick sweaters and thicker petticoats. She thinks back to days of dyed peplos, tied thick over her waist, and is silently grateful for the layers the current fashion provides. Hades, for her part, had favoured tailored waistcoats and chic cravats, with stiff hats and crisp white shirts. Persephone had brought her back a pair of cufflinks as a gift, something easily hidden in the pockets of her cape. Something small, for Hades to remember her by in the long months that they are parted.
The landscape around them begins to change; the snow less, the ground more barren. The smell of decay growing stronger and stronger, like a perfume, welcoming Persephone into the underworld. She doesn’t mind the scent anymore; once she had found a flower blooming in a greenhouse above, a corpse flower they had called it, whose scent had filled her with such a sense of homesickness, the tears had come before she could think to stop them. The scent is so tied to the feel of being held in Hades’ arms, that its arrival is welcomed by Persephone, rather than shunned. Hades hardly acknowledges it anymore, the scent so much a part of her daily life that only long stretches on the surface can fully clear it from her senses.
Persephone can see the banks of the river in the distance, the shore dark and gleaming in the low light of the torches that surround it. She can almost taste it, the sour sweetness of pomegranates that greet her every year and ground her to her home here; her saving grace. She is almost there, closer and closer, as the boat inches towards shore from Hades smooth and strong pulls across the dark water. There is no party waiting to greet them, just the deafening silence of the banks of the river Styx, and the grove of pomegranate shrubs that Hades had planted to guide Persephone on her way home. Finally, they reach the shore, Persephone could reach out and grasp the sand on the ground before her, as Hades plants the oar the sand to help her from the waters.
Hades steps sleekly from the boat, hardly a shift on the water, and reaches her hand out for Persephone to grasp once she is firmly on the shore.
“Welcome home, my love.”