Chapter Text
The trick to finding Poet, Persephone figured out some years ago, is to find his music first.
She’s passing by the baker’s when she first catches the faint sound of a lyre. It’s a familiar tune, one she’s been hearing from the corner of the Lyric pub for years. Persephone stops immediately, scanning the street for the source, but as far as she can see all the few people scattered about have two legs, and none of the horses have arms.
“Poet?” she calls again. Nothing.
There’s an alley to the side of the baker’s, and on a whim, she turns down it. Sure enough, the further she walks the more sure she is that this is the direction it’s coming from.
“Poet?”
She’s not all that far into town, and so reaching the back of the baker’s puts her right at the edge of it. And down by the treeline, there’s Poet. A light, long-legged centaur, laying in the dirt as he strums casually on the lyre. That’s far from unusual. What is unusual is his company. Another centaur, a smaller, stockier, scruffier one. The creature’s dark grey coat is dulled with dust, and it looks like there’s barely anything between that hair and its bones.
“There you are, Poet. Did you lose track of time again?”
He startles, scrambling gracelessly to his feet. Though the other centaur remains on the floor, it watches Persephone with suspicion. Poet, on the other hand, happily trots up to her, whickering something that Persephone recognises as the name he uses for her in his tongue.
“Good to see you too, brother. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Beaming, he looks back over his shoulder and calls out to the other centaur. It doesn’t seem all that impressed.
“No? Well, that’s alright. I’d best be on my way anyway. Are you still okay to give me a ride home?”
He nods, looking a little apologetic as he lowers himself to his knees.
“Thank you.”
Once Persephone has settled on his back, Poet pulls himself back up onto his feet. She pats his shoulder, appreciating the ease with which he lifts her. Persephone and Hermes may still call him a colt, but she has to admit that in the last few years he’s grown into an impressive young stallion. He wickers to the other centaur again, and then he and Persephone head off.
Persephone’s proper side-saddle lasts all of two minutes. She twists to sit backwards, leaning against Poet’s upper back and getting as comfortable as one can on a moving animal. That’s one advantage to centaur rides; no need to keep your eyes ahead, and a convenient backrest. Another, of course, is that they’re slightly better conversationalists than horses.
“So, Poet. You’ve been well?”
He responds with a happy whinny. In the years she’s known Poet, Persephone has learnt to interpret centaurs better than most - not quite as well as Hermes has, but still beyond the norm - but most of their language is as difficult for humans to parse as human language is for centaurs to pronounce. It’s more varied than horse calls, sure, more structured, but most humans don’t have the ear to distinguish six different tones of snort. Most of the time, Poet will just find an appropriate wordless sound to get across what he wants to say instead.
“And Hermes?”
Another affirmative.
“And your new friend?”
Persephone is almost dislodged from her seat by the sudden spring in his step.
“Alright, alright, cool it, boy.” She pats his shoulder. “Is it friendship, or… something else?”
Persephone is sure she’s never heard a bashful neigh before, but there’s a first time for everything.
“Alright, lover boy. Tell me all about it.”
Most of the time Poet will be deliberate in his communication, but sometimes, the colt just wants to ramble. Persephone doesn’t have to understand the words to listen. So, the rest of the walk to her mother’s farmhouse is spent laying back with her hands behind her head, serenaded with happy whickering. He goes on talking right up to the porch steps, where he stops so she can hop down.
“Thank you, brother. Here.” She reaches into her bag, and hands over an apple and a small loaf of bread. “Share it with your colt, yeah?”
Poet cocks his head, snorting.
“The boy you were with, the one you were telling me about?”
His eyes widen, and he whickers something. And then repeats himself, slowly, so that she can recognise the way that he addresses her sometimes, the word that she’s sure means something like ‘miss’.
“What- oh. She’s not a colt.”
Poet nods.
“Well in that case, share it with your filly.”
He grins, nods again, and with a last whinny trots off back towards town.
It’s no later than that same evening that Persephone is back in town. Her mother questioned that decision, asking if she didn’t want at least one night of good rest after the journey, but Persephone never had a second thought. Put off the Lyric for another night, when she’s already been waiting half a year? No chance.
So, only a handful of hours after the train got in, one of Demeter’s horses is tethered outside the pub and Persephone has a cup of wine in her hand. Poet is in his usual corner, having only briefly looked up to smile at Persephone on her way in before he was lost to his music again. Hermes is leaning on the other side of the bar, his own cup in hand, his smile infectious. It’s been far too long.
Of course, the conversation eventually turns to the musician in the corner. It’s the most relaxed Persephone ever sees him, laying in that corner, just him and the lyre. “Took me a while to find him,” she says, “when I got off the train.”
Hermes hums, clearly not all that surprised. “I did remind him this morning that you were due back in town, but you know how he is.”
“What, you mean too busy serenading pretty fillies to remember a job?”
He chuckles. “You’ve met her, then?”
“Briefly. Granted, I thought she was a colt at first. Didn’t get a good look at her face, and she was laying there with just an open waistcoat, and… Do mares not…?”
She gestures vaguely to her chest. Hermes raises an eyebrow as he raises his glass to his lips.
“Horses have udders, darling.”
“Oh. Huh… But, udders aside. Poet and this girl, how long’s that been going on for?”
“She wandered into town a few weeks ago. And when I tell you that colt was smitten the moment he saw her… The filly, not so much. The day she showed up I watched Poet trot up to her to try to give her a flower, and for a good five minutes I thought I was gonna see him get his ribs kicked in.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well, you know Poet. The boy’s not exactly subtle. But, to be fair to him, she’s not the friendliest either. Hasn’t let me near her.”
“But you’ve tried?”
“Mm. Tried to give them both the leftovers I’d usually give Poet, but as soon as she saw me coming she was stomping and snorting and giving me all kinds of attitude. I can take a hint. But, Poet shares with her anyway, so that’s no issue. Just means I don’t have her name.”
“Poet hasn’t told you?”
“He has, and I can just about recognise him saying it, but he doesn’t seem to want me to settle on a human pronunciation without her say-so. That, or I’ve been utterly butchering it every time I tried.”
“Or it’s both.”
“Hm. I’ll admit, I don’t think ‘Poet’ is all that close to his. He just likes the name.”
“It suits him,” Persephone smiles, taking a sip of her drink, but her expression quickly turns pensive. “That girl does look like she could use some feeding, doesn’t she?”
“Most bones I’ve ever seen in a horse. I’d like to give the girl a little more help, I really would, but those animals eat like it’s going out of fashion. I’m already pushing my luck with Poet, I don’t need a grown centaur thinking she can depend on me for nothing. Don’t have that kind of money.”
Persephone barely thinks before responding. “You know who does, though?”
Hermes snorts. “I mean the man no disrespect, but I doubt your husband would be too eager to extend charity to a starving filly.”
“My husband doesn’t know the half of what I do with his money. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting that girl some oats.”
She’s really not that large a centaur.
That’s Persephone’s first thought when she sees the pair again, when she rides back into town the next morning. Maybe it’s part the comparison to Poet, who almost looks like he’s wearing stilts, but even without him around to dwarf her it would be clear the girl is more of a half-pony than a half-horse. Four and a quarter feet at the withers, about. They’re talking now, whickering to each other, the filly leaning on Poet’s back and idly picking at the dirt in his coat. That is, until she spots the two humans headed their way, and she straightens up, flicking her ears in their direction.
Poet is eight feet to the top of his head, more or less. Seeing her standing straight next to him for the first time, Persephone would guess that the filly is a few inches short of seven.
A small centaur is quite a large animal.
“Good morning!” Persephone calls. She keeps her distance - the girl is already tense, clearly, and Persephone knows better than to approach an unfamiliar animal in that state. “I thought I should come and introduce myself, since we didn’t get a chance to properly meet yesterday. I’m Persephone, I’m a friend of Poet and Mister Hermes. You’ve met Hermes, right? From a distance.”
The filly watches her suspiciously, giving no indication of a response. Poet whickers something to her. She snorts.
“I told you,” Hermes says quietly, “she doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”
“It’s alright for her not to trust me right away.”
“I ain’t saying it’s not. Just a warning. Wasn’t kidding when I said I thought she was gonna kick Poet’s ribs in.”
“I’m keeping on my toes, Hermes, don’t you worry.”
She goes to her horse, unstrapping a sack of oats from behind the saddle and hefting it down onto the ground. “I thought you two looked hungry. This’ll last you a little bit, right?”
Poet seems surprised, but happily plods over to her. The filly watches him go like a hawk, pawing nervously. He hesitates for a moment, looking at Persephone in a way that’s easy to interpret as are you sure?
“It’s alright, it’s for you two.”
He grins, whickering something that is probably a thank you as he drags the sack up off the ground. The filly continues to stare at Persephone and Hermes as he returns to her.
“We’ll leave you to it, then. See you around, Poet. And… you.”
Eurydice may be hungry, but she isn’t dumb. She hangs back as Orpheus looks over the sack, pawing restlessly at the ground.
“Why would they just give us that?” she asks.
“Lady Springtime is generous,” Orpheus says, easily. “And Messenger has been giving me food for years, you know that.”
“For work.”
“Not always.”
“Those are scraps. Stuff he had anyway. Giving us a whole new bag of oats for nothing isn’t just generous. It’s too generous.”
Orpheus cocks his head, smiling slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means there’s an ulterior motive. It means I don’t wanna be in debt to these people before I know them.”
“She’s not like that. She’s been way overpaying me for rides since I was old enough to give them. She’s just kind.”
“Too kind. I just- I can’t trust it.”
By now, Orpheus has gotten the sack open. He scoops out a handful of oats. “Well, you don’t have to. But what if I trust it, and I offer it to you?” He holds out the oats. “If anyone owes a debt for it, it’ll be me.”
“...Alright. Just to shut you up.”
He beams as she lays down beside him. Curse that creature and his damn puppy eyes.
Eurydice’s suspicion only deepens when she accepts the handful of food, sniffs at it, and quickly realises that these aren’t just oats. These are decent oats. That human didn’t just leave food, she shelled out for the good stuff.
“You said she’s the daughter of a farmer?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“Has that farmer ever employed centaurs?”
Orpheus nods. “I’ve helped her with the harvest for years. It’s a good deal. She lets me stay in the barn, and she’s upped the pay these last few times since I’ve been old enough to haul.”
“So, she could be trying to butter me up so I’ll take a job too.”
“I don’t think so. But even if she was, would there be any harm in that?”
“This feels like overkill, if that is it. And people still in a position to pay well after the years we’ve been having don’t waste it on ponies.”
“She’s kind,” Orpheus says again. “I know it seems strange now, but it’ll make sense when you get to know her."
“We’ll see about that.”
Eurydice is still suspicious, but she’s also still hungry. She’s trusted Orpheus this far.
“So. You do hauling jobs?” she asks as she finally raises her hand to her mouth.
“Yes. Why d’you say it like that?”
“‘Cause you’re built out of twigs, Orph.”
He laughs. “Well, maybe you could give me some help next time.”
“Maybe I will.”