Work Text:
Kismet’s day.
A day red strings stream from the high, dark spires, hang low enough between the trees to swipe one’s hood off of one’s head if one isn’t careful walking beneath them.
To Hades, it is nothing more than an irritating annoyance, simply waiting to cause mishap and vexation. Red string of fate? Complete and utter nonsense.
He has always held a general dislike for the day, or maybe simply a disinclination to believe it could ever apply to him. Hythlodaeus would scoff at him now, knowing the affection he held for Persephone. He’s already hinted before he finds it an utmost pity that Hades simply refuses to engage in the tradition with the woman.
“I’d be offended, if I were her.”
“There is no point in frightening her off, Hyth. How are things going on with Petri?”
That is only partially the truth. Of course he’s concerned about scaring her with the very implication of celebrating the day with her. It’s almost as good as a proposal of eternal bonds. It’s not something to do with simply anyone.
Not that Persephone is “anyone”.
The other reason is that he simply...
Does not wish to see her push him away.
He knows the hue of her soul better than his own, but to say he understands the inner workings of her mind would be a lie. He doesn’t want to think he’s wrong, or that he’s been mislead, or allowed himself to be mislead...
But avoiding the truth is far easier than finding out for himself what she truly thinks.
So he simply wallows in completely avoiding the day, the legend, all that blasted red -- even her, if he has to. Thus far, this plan has never failed him.
Until today.
He’s alone in his office when the door opens abruptly. He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is -- the glow of her soul is enough, and already he can feel a faint sheen of sweat building up at the back of his neck. Had Hyth told her where he was holing himself up this time?
“Hades!” Persephone drifts toward him once the door is shut, her sweet voice echoing gently through the room. She wouldn’t speak like this if anyone else had been here. Perhaps he should have scheduled some sort of appointment if only to have an excuse to be busy.
“Persephone,” he greets with an anxiety he doesn’t want to feel. He’s passed his school age ridiculousness of feeling nervous of any little thing he does around her. This is any normal day. It should be any normal day. There’s nothing strange about today. Yes, if he just repeats this to himself --
“How are you doing today? It is Kismet’s day, have you heard?”
He swallows, jaw clenching, as a gnawing pit appears in his stomach.
“Yes. I have. Heard.”
Her hands clap together, sleeves rustling slightly as she perches upon the corner of her desk delicately. On one of her shoulders sits a ball of pink fluff; it blinks enormous eyes at him owlishly, before turning away to nuzzle its face into the collar of Persephone’s robes.
“I think it is such a charming day. Very romantic.” Any other day, and he might have admired the way her soul seems to flair and gleam with her words. As it is, the sinking pit in his stomach merely deepens.
Does he expect her to say she’s to spend the day with someone else? But that is ridiculous. There is no red string about her finger. And why would she...?
Not once have Persephone’s eyes left his as she speaks, no matter how much Hades wishes to look away. Or wishes that she would? He’s not entirely sure. He clears his throat.
“I suppose.” He manages to give a small shrug. “I’m not especially interested in Kismet’s day. As you know.”
Despite the cowl and mask that obscure most of her facial features from him, he thinks he can sense a flash of hurt in the woman’s eyes. For a moment, the sick feeling nearly makes him want to vomit --
But why would she be upset by such a thing? He has not exactly kept his disdain of the day secret...even if he’s tried to avoid her for the most part. Surely Hyth must have told her, as well.
Persephone’s shoulders hunch slightly; her fingers grasp the edge of the desk tightly, and it nearly looks as if she’s about to leave. The very colours of her soul dim --
And then, suddenly, she sits up with renewed determination, digging a hand into her pocket.
“T-the story goes,” she starts, still not looking at him, “that Ariadne and Theseus were lovers separated by stars and sea, only able to meet once a year when the tides lowered enough for them to be able to walk across the sands and embrace one another.”
He’s heard this story -- and variations of it -- more times than he can count. It is a favourite tale to recite on Kismet’s day. But telling it seems to give her some form of courage, which he hopes to siphon from her, so he does not interrupt.
“Ariadne was a weaver, and one day she had an idea to weave a magical red string, called a moira.” She plays with something hidden from his sight in the palms of her hands, worrying at it with her fingers.
“When next she was able to meet Theseus, she tied one end of the string to one of his fingers, and one end of the string to hers. The powers of her magic were so great that the string could stretch forever and on into eternity, no matter how far apart they were -- and with his combined magic, they could both find one another wherever they were. There was no longer any reason for them to be separated ever again.”
Persephone finally looks up to smile at him somewhat shyly, pleased with her rendition of the tale.
It is such a ridiculous story. Why did they not simply use such a perfect and simple solution before? Why did they wait through years of anguish before ever realising that they could combine their abilities and be together? Why could they not simply move together -- what in this world would ever compel them to be separated by “sea and stars”?
But knowing how she enjoys it, he bites his tongue.
“A charming story,” is what he says instead, though the words taste no better than ash. The glimmer of her soul is a paltry reward as her smile widens and she ducks her head to peer at her palms again.
A glimmer of red as she finally lifts it for him to see. His stomach sinks somewhere into a void beneath his chair, never to return.
“I-I have brought some moira to-d-day.” Her voice is suddenly clipped and mechanical; he’s not certain, but her face looks somewhat more ashy than before. Though surely he must not be looking any better. His throat refuses to work, like a dead circuit.
Her fingers grasp gently at his left hand, pulling it toward her. He’s powerless to stop her, or maybe he wants to be, or maybe he doesn’t know. Delicately, clumsily, she ties one end of the red string bundled in her palms to one of his fingers. Then, with trepidation, she ties the other end to one of her own fingers on her left hand.
“S-so...that we may always find each other...Hades.”
Whatever bravado she’d had earlier while telling him the story is long gone. Replacing it is a girlish apprehension as she anticipates his -- what? Rejection? Refusal? Mockery?
-- She’d been as frightened of this as him?
And yet she had still been the one to...
He almost wants to laugh, but he’s not capable of making a sound.
Instead, he stares at the red string connecting them -- the one that goes from his finger, to hers, a mass of it seeping to the floor where it lies, coiled, waiting to be used.
Because wherever they go, they will always find each other...like this. To think that she would want...
It is just a stupid day, with a stupid story, and a ridiculous bit of string, but for some reason he has to steel himself against the sudden onslaught of emotions railing in his chest. For once, he’s thankful to wear the robe and mask in this room, for if his face were naked in front of her now, he is fearful she would be bale to see just how weak he feels.
He merely clenches his jaw as he tries very hard not to --
“H-Hades?” His silence has gone on for too long, and she’s mistaken his rigidity as rejection. “I-I am -- s-sorry -- I -- ”
Though he’d felt sick at the mere implication of the string earlier, now her reaching to prise it from his hand makes him feel even more ill. He catches her hand between his own, like a butterfly, shaking his head wordlessly.
“ -- No. That is...no.” Finally, he manages to speak, a deep breath leaving him. “No. That is not -- that isn’t...it’s. Fine.”
He’s talking like an imbecile. He should simply shut up.
“It’s...f-fine...?” she repeats uncertainly. He can’t muster the strength to look her in the eye. Instead, he gives her a small nod, gaze transfixed on her hand cupped between his.
It’s ridiculous. They’ve touched like this before, too.
But never with a red string...
His palms clasp tighter around hers as he finally manages to lift his head to meet her concerned gaze.
“ -- I will always find you, Persephone.”
The relieved and adoring smile she gives him is brighter than any ray of light he’s ever seen.