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Eurydice sighs as she pulls her latest baking attempt from the oven. She hadn’t expected much—baked goods with butter never turned out right down here—but she’d still hoped . She can’t be blamed for dreaming of flakey pastry layers! Death is long, and food from before haunts her.
She drops the pan onto the counter and pokes at the sad dough—the butter melted all over the pan, and her pastries are flat and dense and sad . Eurydice tries one anyway. It could be worse, could be burnt, but it makes her feel empty in a way all her failed experiments do.
There’s an adjustment period to being dead. It’s a matter of grieving and acceptance, especially since the whole thing with Orpheus went sideways. It’s not just about grieving your life, but the things in it.
For example: Asphodel is hot.
It’s not something that Eurydice notices anymore, not in the way Zagreus does when he comes by. In a way, it’s a relief that Eurydice can still notice it, can still feel the difference between the normal air and the heat of the oven. That her senses are still with her and working. She’s glad she didn’t have to mourn them.
But she does miss the cold. She misses ice and wind and rain. She misses snow. She misses a cool drink on a hot day—she could use a cool drink most days.
Most of all, she misses baking where the temperature isn’t hellishly hot. Literally.
She doesn’t mind Asphodel, she doesn’t hate the idea of eternity here. But what she wouldn’t do for a chilled mousse and a friend to share it with some days.
Most of the adjusting here had to be baking-related. Sure, it was strange not to see the sun or sky, but somehow stranger was how she had to mentally adjust the rise times for her favorite loaves of bread, which had served her so faithfully on the surface. Any icing attempts had to be soft and runny because it was too warm for it to ever set properly—not that there was anyone to impress with beautiful plating. And ice cream—
Ice cream is a chilled sweet memory that sits on the tip of her tongue, so faint she can barely taste it anymore.
At one point, she found herself mentally building a new recipe, something for Lord Hades and Lady Persephone’s anniversary. A matcha and chai ice cream, sweet and cold and creamy, a hint of rose for a taste of springtime and life. As soon as it sprung to mind, fully formed like a goddess, Eurydice buried the idea six feet deep. Ice cream is a luxury belonging to the living.
Eurydice drops her half-eaten pastry. This recipe didn’t work; she’ll have to keep experimenting.
She drizzles icing on them anyway. Might as well try to save them, and even if it never sets, the sweet icing makes them slightly more appetizing.
Just as she’s putting down the icing bag, Zagreus saunters in, leaking a bit of blood on the floor but looking less battered and bruised than the last time Eurydice saw him.
“Hey, kid.” She rests a hand on her hip. “How’s it going?”
“Ah, you know.” Zagreus shrugs. “It gets tedious.”
Fair enough. The Underworld is a relatively closed circuit for its non-shade denizens. It’s why Eurydice bakes. Or tries to.
“I have the usual,” Eurydice gestures to the counter behind her, “but I also have some pastries you can try free of charge.”
Zagreus’ eyes light up. “Pastries?”
“The recipe is a work in progress,” she admits. “But they’re free.”
That seems good enough for Zagreus because he eats three before slowing down. He doesn’t seem to mind that the icing is runny and the pastry is too doughy.
Either that, or he’s starving. Eurydice will take either.
“They’ll be better next time, Your Royal Majesty,” she decides. Might as well have a driving force behind her baking, something—some one — to look forward to instead of getting pushed along by spite and frustration at not being able to replicate something now out of her reach.
Zagreus sucks some icing off his finger. “These are already amazing.”
“I can do better—it’s the heat down here.” She fans herself. “It makes baking tough.”
He looks up at her, and she wonders if he heard the harsh bitterness in her voice. She hadn’t meant for it to be there, rough and sharp like chopped nuts, but it was there all the same.
“What do you mean?” Zagreus asks and sometimes Eurydice looks at him and thinks that he’s so young and he’s so lucky . But he also passes by her home just to die again and again and again.
And it feels a little silly to miss ice cream.
Eurydice smiles. “You don’t bake, do you, hon?” He shrugs. “It’s the heat. You can’t have a chilled drink here. Certainly no ice cream. It’s easy to miss.”
And then she stands, bundling up the remaining pastries for him with some pom porridge, and sends him on his way.
He asks her if she’s sure she doesn’t want any pastries and she says she’s going to make more. Really, she just needed them out of her sight.
Zagreus is at the bar in the lounge thinking. He’s been doing a lot of that, especially while watching the Head Chef make food, chop vegetable after vegetable.
Orpheus’ voice floats through the House, carrying Eurydice’s song with it.
Zagreus frowns and stares harder at the pomegranate the Head Chef is cutting into. As good as Head Chef’s creations are, they’re nothing compared to what Eurydice can do—and apparently in less-than-optimal conditions.
He still remembers the first time he tasted snow: the fresh rush of cold that landed on his tongue and sprinkled his skin.
He looks to the Head Chef again. He’s had an idea—pretty basic but an idea nonetheless—he just doesn’t know how to make it a reality.
It would require cold. A lot of it.
He thinks of the snow melting beneath his feet again.
“Now that’s an idea,” he says with a smile.
Eurydice pulls out the ingredients for Ambrosia Delight as she plays around with a song. At least she knows Ambrosia Delight is tasty. No, she doesn’t need to eat anymore. But she still loves food and she loves baking.
It’s a good thing Zagreus started showing up when he did. There aren’t exactly a lot of people to bake for down here.
On cue, the ground starts to shake. Eurydice almost drops her bowl as the floor shudders beneath her feet. She sticks her head out of her chamber to see a giant three-headed dog bounding toward her, the Prince of Hell on its back.
“Eurydice!” Zagreus shouts.
She raises a hand. “Hey.”
He leans down and pets one of the heads. “Good boy, Cerberus.”
Eurydice eyes the dog. “New mode of transportation, I see.”
Zagreus lifts the covered basket. It seems to glow from within. “I had to get here fast!” he says as he slides off Cerberus’ back. “I wanted to surprise you!”
Eurydice blinks. “Color me surprised.” She doesn’t know if she has any treats a giant three-headed dog would like, but she is up to the challenge.
Zagreus tells Cerberus to stay, then joins Eurydice in her chamber, presenting the basket to her. “For you!”
“For me,” Eurydice repeats as she takes it. “You don’t have to give me anything, hon, your company is enough.”
“I wanted to,” Zagreus promises. “Head Chef had to help,” he admits. “And Demeter.”
“Demeter.” Eurydice feels like Echo. She opens the basket and pulls out the container inside it. “Now what would an Olympian want with… me…” She trails off as she takes the top off.
It’s filled with ice cream swirled with pieces of fruit. The container is cold to the touch, the basket radiates a chill that makes her shiver.
For the first time since she died, Eurydice feels alive.
“Ice cream,” she says breathlessly.
“It sounded like you really missed it, so I thought…” Zagreus turns pink. “It might already be melting.”
Eurydice grabs two spoons, handing one to Zagreus before he can protest. “Taste some, you made it,” she says before taking her first bite.
The ice cream melts in her mouth, creamy and sweet and cold. It sends a shiver up her spine and it takes all her self-control not to shovel it all down, to give herself a brain freeze just because she can.
She closes her eyes, savoring each bite as it calls to her soul, bringing the heat of the summer sun to her skin and a taste of winter’s chill to her tongue.
“It’s turning to soup,” Zagreus laughs, bringing her back to the present.
She grins and takes another spoonful of the half-melted ice cream. The winter is quickly turning to a blistering summer, and she’s going to chase the chill until it’s gone. “A delicious soup,” she agrees and takes a bite.