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He knows.
He knows and he minds.
It’s impossible not to with the way she flaunts it, flouncing out of that speakeasy ( – another ‘secret’ he isn’t supposed to know, no doubt – ) with shining eyes, just like every other time that feathered god visits.
The two of them operate on something of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy for the months they are apart; she leaves him behind – something she’s done far too many times now – to live it up on top, and he remains in the shade, head low and back bent. Husband and wife each have their domains, their proclivities, their vices, and they are both old enough – or perhaps jaded enough – to keep their nose out of the other’s business.
But when Persphone brought her love affair into his kingdom, she took things a step too far.
In his younger years he would have been jealous: now he is just weary. The weight of this world sits upon his shoulders – responsibility for every soul down here, for however long they stay – and the task to better their afterlives is his and his alone. They will not feel the cold on his watch. They will not go hungry when he can provide. He will not let them go; he will not fail them. He labours beneath this load night and day, defending his people, defending his wife, in this endless war against poverty… And then Persephone decides to cuckold him right under his nose.
It puts Hades into the darkest of moods, right in time to face the musical interloper and his belladona kiss.
I came to take her home.
It’s an absurd idea, but somehow Hades is the only one laughing. A bought soul, leave Hadestown? Not possible. That is not the way the world is. Here the girl is safe, warm, provided for – a responsibility the King clearly takes more seriously than this so-called lover ever did.
And that should have been the end of it. But then Persephone has the audacity to invite herself into his office to plead the boy’s case. Her voice rings clear as she presents her tuneful petition, and Hades makes no attempt to curtail his bitter counter that nothing will come of this, even if she were sorry for what she had done. What use is it to appeal to him and call him husband, to say these children love each other like the King and Queen of the Underworld once did, all after taking another god to bed in full view and without shame?
The most effective way to hurt Seph is to hurt these mortals she cares for so much, whisper three harmonised voices in the back of his mind. And the voices are right. Sending the boy to the Great Beyond, to Tartarus, would surely strike at the heart of the green goddess, earning Hades both peace of mind and payback in one move. Pity it might also fracture their marriage beyond recovery. (Assuming it isn’t already irretrievable.)
The King of Diamonds – or is it King of Spades? – does not like this Jack of Hearts. At least, that’s what he starts out thinking when he finally caves and allows the boy an audience. Not for pity, you understand, but for his kingdom; he can’t have a disrespectful trespasser stirring up riots and disrupting the lives of good working people. Not in Hadestown. And if his wife looks pleased with him for the first time in decades, well, that’s just a coincidence.
Except. The boy sings about him. It means very little at first; the boy clearly doesn’t know that Hades’ heart of stone will not be touched by the story of his old romance. But then comes that song. His song. The one he had sung on his knees in the dirt, face turned up to the only sunshine he ever cared about, begging for at least her pity if she could not give her love. It fills him all at once with steely fury and devastating loneliness; after all this time, what has really come of the song he sung?
Ending there would have been bad enough. Hades already feels exposed and unsteady, no longer quite relishing the thought of kicking the boy to Tartarus but knowing it is necessary nonetheless. However, the poet has one last arrow to fire.
The greater the weight of the world on his shoulders.
What.
See how he labours beneath that load,
Wait—
Afraid to look up and afraid to let go.
The King of Shades, and Shadows, and Depths and Dark and Death has just been ripped open and laid bare at the hands of a mortal boy. All present can look upon his cinderblock heart and see the yellow-sapphire he hides beneath. Yellow. The colour of fear. The colour of failure. The colour of never-good-enough. After all the work he has put into it, the Wall has failed him when it matters most. The Mighty Hades has fallen upon the sword of this penniless poet, and he has no defences left.
Eyes darkened by shame, the god of the Underworld lifts his gaze to his wife’s…
…and finds in her eyes the pity he begged for so long ago.
How? He has been outed as weak, and fearful – surely no longer fit to rule or reign – but still she looks at him with concern in those pretty eyes. She looks at him with sympathy.
Snakeskin boots step towards Persephone without their owner’s consent, and the Lady of the Underground mirrors his steps, eyes shining wet. Is this somehow what she wanted all along; to see him exposed and helpless, to see beyond his strength to the scared young man beneath? To triumph over him? No. To understand him. She never comprehended why he built the town, and the mines and the mills and the machinery – she never believed him when he said he built it for her, because she couldn’t see past her distaste for the unnaturalness of it all. But now she sees. Now she understands.
Now she sees that the man she fell in love with is still here, and always has been.
So Hades opens his mouth, and he sings…
“I didn’t mean it, lover,” the King murmurs in his wife’s ear, several minutes later, after the flower and the dancing, and the kiss. “When I said I’d find someone else, I didn’t mean it.”
“And the ‘stepping into your office’?”
“I wanted to make you jealous.” Everybody knows Mr Hades never apologises, and yet: “...It was wrong of me.” Close enough.
“...I know.”
Dark eyes press shut. Of course she knows. Of course she sees through his bluffing to the bitterness beneath. What a pity she could never see through the bitterness to the fear, and through the fear to the love.
“I was lonesome, even when you weren’t gone.”
“I understand.”
“Then do you let me stay with you?”
“I do.”
“I do.”
“I do.”
“And stay whoever comes our way?”
“I will.”
“I will.”
“We will.”
Muscled arms tighten around her. They are not fixed, not yet, maybe not ever, but it’s a start.
Still, one thing remains between them. And somehow, although usually a man of few words, Hades’ heart burns like a pit in his chest and releases his tongue from its silence.
“Don’t do that again, Seph.”
Persephone says nothing, but her fingers tighten on his. She knows.
“Up on top… you live it up however you want. I know your heart is big enough for two. But not down here, not while Hades is King.” He could never care for anyone but Persephone, not in that way, but the god of the Underworld is plenty old enough to know not everyone is the same. And Seph was always special.
Our Lady of Spring nods her head against her husband’s neck, carelessly spreading salty wetness across dark skin. It is far from what she expected to hear. The pomegranate-words settle in her ears and she presses herself closer into Hades’ rock hard strength. She will take what she can get, and make the most of it.