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Persephone has to admit, she is almost disappointed when daddy’s messenger arrives. It was an inevitable, really — and yet, after days of wondering if she'd be excited to see him, she isn't.
Oh, but he is nice to look at though. Hermes stands all noble and gallant, play-acting he is a little hero for her. He walks in with a strut, he poses. He’s cute, Persephone decides; she watches him with a hint of a smile as he strides into Hades’ big throne room like he owns the place. Typical Hermes; all bluster, but he is fun to watch.
Hades notices her attention slipping; his hand tightens on hers and he scowls at her smile. For only a moment, but she sees it. He may protest he isn’t an Olympian, but he sure does seem to feel the same jealousy auntie Hera has whenever daddy looks at another girl.
“What brings the son of Zeus to the house of Hades?” She watches her would-be groom as he addresses her half-brother. Hades is careful now, back in control; his face expresses nothing but carefully cultivated boredom. She almost admires it. She squeezes his hand, and Hermes’ eyes focus squarely on their combined palms.
“The daughter of Zeus.” Hermes flicks his hands, a scroll disappearing from his belt and reappearing at his fingertips. Persephone is unimpressed; at best, his move is a lazy use of power. Any god could do such a simple parlor trick, and it wastes strength he may need if he wants to drag her out of here. Hades’ hand goes to his bident, clearly thinking the same, but — he does not use it. Hermes clears his throat. “Her father bids her come home. Demeter above ravages the world for want of her child, and all-father Zeus has decided Persephone must return to her mother and remain with her, for all time, as a virgin goddess, akin to your great sister Hestia.”
Persephone wrinkles her nose. She doesn't mind auntie Hes and she loves mama, of course, but the idea of being some vestal virgin for all eternity holds about as much interest for her as eating turnips for the rest of her immortal days. Her paramour clearly does not like this idea either, not one bit; Hades exhales, heavy, his mouth dipping into a frown. His grip on her hand is uncomfortably tight, and she removes her fingers from his. Hermes brightens, his smile clearly thinking that she is on the same page as him. Hades’ frown deepens; he opens his mouth, but she cuts him off before he gets so much as a word out.
“Does Persephone get a say in all this?” She asks; she’s had well — not a good time in the underworld, per se, but an interesting one. It isn’t like home; unlike with Demeter, Hades doesn’t force her to do things she does not want to because a good goddess should. Of course, his love clearly has its own restrictions: she certainly can’t flirt with another man again without him getting worked up about it, not with him staring at her like this over Hermes just smiling at her. And then, of course, there’s the itsy bitsy problem of having to live in his gloomy abode, where the primary color is grey and the primary emotion is, also, grey. No windows, no sunlight, barely any plants. Admittedly, there are definite disadvantages to the situation. But after a good two decades of being bossed around by everybody — by momma, and daddy, and auntie Hes and uncle Poseidon and now Hades and Hermes too — well, she’s gotten her fill. She eyes Hermes warily. She’s pretty sure she could take Hermes if she wanted to, and equally sure Hades would let her murder the messenger if it meant she’d stay.
Hermes laughs, obnoxiously loudly. “I mean, it’s dad. No, you do not get a choice. He summons, you come. That’s…how it goes." Persephone gives him a glare that would strike a mortal dead; he doesn't even have the grace to look upset by it.
“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” She examines her nails; she feels Hades' eyes on her, hard and dark and burning with an unanswered question. Typical Hades: unseen, unsaid. She doesn’t turn to look at him fully, keeps her attention on Hermes. “My fate. My life. My choice. And yet you and my mother and my father think it so unnecessary to have any input from me before deciding I’m to be some eternal maiden in service to my mother?”
Hermes looks oddly at her, eyebrows raised, then his mouth opens, accusatory; he turns toward Hades, even though the man has not yet spoken. “Did he give you a choice?”
“Does it matter?” She answers for Hades, flicking her hair behind her. “What Olympus wishes cannot come to pass. The damage is already done, as far as the only thing my mother cares about.”
That’s a bit of a fib, but Persephone has always been a good liar. Hades must be, too, for he doesn’t give her virginity away, eyes cool on Hermes as the boy stares with something akin to horror in the way his mouth opens and hangs there, like a fish. Disgraceful, she thinks. Hermes is pretty and he is clever but he is not, she thinks, as good at this hero game as he thinks he is.
“What? I…I mean, how?” He looks between them; she looks back, impassive, and Hades must be doing the same, for Hermes clearly gets nothing but unwelcome mental images in response. Hades is not the best looking God by Olympian standards, it is true; his body too bulky, his skin too mottled with scars. His eyes, somehow, are a far darker brown than any soil and all the stranger to their kin for it; his nose too large, his lips too thin. He is not ugly, no, but he is beautiful in a way that it takes a moment to realize. Hermes doesn’t bother looking for it. Instead, Hermes shudders.
“A moment, messenger,” Hades says, voice low. “I would speak with my wife.”
“Ugh, uh, even if you’ve done…that…I’m pretty sure she isn’t your wife — I mean, my father—“ Hermes still hasn’t recovered; he is definitely not as good at this rescuing-a-goddess thing as he might have thought he was.
“Let me make myself understood,” Hades rumbles, every word clarion-clear in its intent. He leans forward, the bident strapped across his lap and one hand resting on it. “What your father says matters in the clouds above. But here in the world below, I am King, and any ruling he makes is, at best, a suggestion to me. He does not rule here, and if you continue to insist he does, I will hang you in Tartarus for treason.”
Persephone watches him as he makes the speech; every word a portent of Hermes’ doom. Her would-be husband grins at the boy, but there is no joy in it. She wonders what he feels, deep down. He wants her to stay, she thinks; would have sent her with Hermes if he had tired of their games…but she is not sure she wants to stay permanently, and isn’t that sure forever is on his mind, either. This is a dire place, and looking at him now, she realizes: he is a dire man. Power swirls around him in a venomous statement of intent, and, unlike Hermes, she does not think he is fronting. It is…attractive, she thinks.
He is very strong.
“I…understand,” Hermes says, giving in. He curls his arms inward, subconsciously presenting himself as lesser though Persephone does not think he realizes it. “I’ll wait in the hall. Bid me enter after you’ve had your say, but do make it quick.”
“I will take whatever time I please, messenger,” Hades snaps. She wonders if he will yell at her when the door is closed; this powerful realm-king is not a side she has seen of him in their brief courtship.
Their courtship thus far has traced a familiar pattern – he brings her something, she casts it aside. He asks what do you want, and she plays the dutiful daughter, naming things he cannot give her — sun, moon, sky. They argue, and he leaves, and he tries again a bit later, a gift in his arms in apology: I cannot give you the sun but I give you a bit of the Phlegethon, its fire just as bright to warm your heart; in place of the moon I give you a brazier with diamond studs, which will shine just as bright in our room; in place of the sky, I give you the earth, equally boundless in all directions. She accepts the gift, and he is pleased, but then she mentions another surface desire and the process continues. They are on round 9 of it now, 9 days of gifting and accepting, warring and courting, and she’s let him get close enough to kiss her — once. On the cheek. She likes their courtship, likes having the power over him, likes seeing him grovel for her; momma has never let her hold herself above anyone’s head like that, but now — it doesn’t seem to matter. They are out of days. Unless she binds herself here.
To him.
Hermes beats his feet against the ground so fast that he nearly runs right into the sickly little tree off to the right of the double-doors of Hades throne room; he dodges at the last second and shuts the doors behind him with a deafening click. Hades jumps up, follows him, staring through the doors to ensure that the messenger isn’t pulling a trick. Hermes has plenty of tricks, of course, but they’re silly japes, kid things: leaving cows in daddy’s temple, mis-tuning Apollo’s lyre, “borrowing” Poseidon’s trident. Besides, she’s pretty sure that Hermes is still trying to avoid going blind. He always did have a good imagination.
Hades uses his bident to bar the doors, and, satisfied Hermes cannot come back in, he turns back to her.
They are alone, now.
“Well,” Hades says; he’s gentler in tone with her. He smiles, and the look, too, is entirely different from the dour look that he gave Hermes. She doesn’t return it. “That did not go the way I thought it would.”
“And how did you think it would go? That I would beg at your feet to stay here?” Her voice shakes a bit; did he anticipate this? Has this been his game all along, to wait until she has no choice and force her? He is said to be crafty. He knows as damn well as she does that she doesn’t want to stay, but she bets he knows she doesn’t exactly want to go, either.
“No,” he says, and the moment that follows is so quiet, she’s pretty sure she could throw a pin at him and hear it plink against his skin and tumble down through his robes. He doesn’t elaborate, and she wants to howl in frustration, because she doesn’t know how to read his ambivalent face and the less information he gives her, the less she has to work with in making a life-altering decision. He raises an eyebrow. “You certainly seemed to enjoy the look of daddy’s little messenger.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a very jealous man.”
“Shouldn’t I be?” He crosses the space between them, stands in front of her throne and, to her surprise, kneels down, places his big hands over her small ones and looks her square in the eye.
“For all the time I have spent in gloom light I am still a man fully capable of seeing what must be inferred. I have seen how your protests are, shall we say, perhaps a bit too much. I have seen the way you look at my gifts…which you have not refused, even if you make me fight for every inch of space I cross between us. Isn’t there something here I should fight to protect?” His hands rub at her knuckles; big, callused hands. A worker’s hands, which is odd, because he’s even more noble-blooded than she is, but it’s true: his hands are as calloused as a grave-digger. She lets him hold her a good minute like that, his big eyes asking questions she doesn’t know how to answer. This isn’t home and she isn’t sure she wants it to be. She just wants to be her damn self, and it’s frustrating that none of the options are to be just that. Maybe if she had the power of his throne, she'd be able to choose her own path. Maybe not.
Doesn't seem to matter much what she wants. To any of them.
“I don’t think it matters.” She pulls her hands away. “You didn’t give me a choice in coming here, either.”
“I am giving you a choice now,” he says; he’s frustrated, she can tell by the way his hands clench a bit too tight. “I couldn’t talk to you up there, the others—“
“I can’t talk to my mother down here, either,” she says, glaring at him. He doesn’t have an answer for that. He looks down, huffs out a bit of male pride.
“Do you want to?” He asks after a moment; she doesn’t answer. She isn’t sure, and that’s the worst part of it, because sure, she loves momma, but momma’s just so …difficult, and Hades is difficult, and daddy’s difficult and Persephone, well, she’s difficult too, just in different ways. He takes her silence as proof of—well, she doesn’t know what, but something; she can see it as his head bobs, a new path burning in his eyes.
He stands, whirls away from her, stalking across the halls, and for a minute she thinks he’s gonna throw open the doors and tell Hermes to take her. Her stomach clenches; she doesn’t want to stay here but she sure as hell doesn’t want to go back home. She holds out an arm to mutely stop him but he does not see it and does not need her warning. He stops abruptly before the big double-doors, reaches over to the tree just off to the side; an odd thing, one she hasn’t given much thought to, but it’s one of the few plants down here in the underworld. Only one in the castle, this one. He reaches up and pulls one of its small fruits down – pomegranate, she thinks, from the star-crown she can see peeking out from his hands.
“This is the only living thing here, besides yourself and I,” he says. “I used to try to grow more things here, but—I never had your talents. Only this, somehow, thrived, and I could never bear to move it, even as it grew into the castle foundation itself as I was making this place, brick by brick.” She tries to imagine that, Hades making up his castle, and what this land looked like before all that, but truth is, she doesn’t know what it looked like then and she can’t imagine it now. “I always thought it odd that this should grow so well. Fruit sacred to Hera, a marriage-meal, and yet, despite my solitude, it grew in my land when my own crops failed to take. Now, I know why.”
She is sure he is speaking in allegory, but she doesn’t get the point and they don’t have a lot of time. She opens her mouth to speak but this time it is him who renders her speechless. He waves a hand, as if to dismiss her words, but his eyes stay on her. “What I offer you,” he says, walking back toward her, one hand on the fruit and the other making something out of the air, fine filaments drifting from the ether into some kind of object in his hand. A knife, she realizes, as he returns to his seat at her side, he is making a knife, silver with elaborate vines decorating the handle—“is to share all that I have. My worship will be yours; my home, yours; my third of the universe — yours, as much as it is mine.”
He slices into the pomegranate, removing the star-crown and showing her the arils inside; they are different from that of the world above: darker, thinner kernels. More close to seeds than the pulpy treats she remembers sucking on as a child. “I offer you everything that I have and that I am and that I will have and will be, Persephone. This is my final offer to you; will you be my bride?”
It’s a big offer, she knows; he’s a god of many things, and offering her his worship is to increase hers by a score. But she does not love him. How can she? They have known one another a week, and they will live forever. It is not a decision that should be made in haste, but if she does not marry him…She shudders, thinking of her momma. She loves her momma, honestly, truthfully, she does, but momma is a lot and momma has certain ideals and once momma has seen her reject an entire realm, well, there’s no one smaller scale whose gonna put in a bid for marryin' her, especially now she told Hermes that she’s taken the marriage-bed. Hades isn’t popular on Olympus but he’s powerful, a better match than what she should have; she’s just a bastard child, one of many, the sort Zeus normally marries off to mortals for a few years to get out of his halls. No, neither her mother nor her father can seek a better match for her than this, if she rejects one-third of the entire universe. Even if it is the darkest third.
Even if she does not love him. Perhaps it is only that she does not love him yet; perhaps he is right in suggesting that there is something that could grow between them…but then again, perhaps he is not.
“I—I don’t know,” she says, angry, because it isn’t right that she has to pick, right this second; isn't right that all these older gods keep trying to write her life story for her. The only thing worse, she thinks, than being an eternal child, constantly by her mother’s side, is being trapped down here, with a man who might not love her enough in a few years. She’s seen Zeus and Hera and what’s happened to them. Hades and her, they’re the only two alive down here; she can’t do what daddy does and offer herself to some handsome stranger if she gets bored. This is it.
Forever and ever.
And honestly, maybe that’s fine, if they could grow to love one another, because she doesn’t like the idea of another lover with him, holding those callused, mottled hands and cooing over his scars. If he’s hers, she wants him to be hers alone. But if he’s already kidnapped one girl from the surface, she thinks he could do it again if...if they don’t fall in love. Maybe not a goddess this time, but something easier to manipulate, some mortal woman; she could see him doing it, and it turns her belly, because there’s a good chance they won’t love one another and if they don't, is she doomed to watch him take sacrifices she could have prevented until the end of time? She can't live with that.
There are so many reasons this shouldn’t work at all. The safer thing to do is go back to momma, suck it up, live unsatisfied as a vestal virgin all her days and wonder, sometimes, in sleepless nights, what could have been. But then she looks at him again, elegant fingers on the knife, and what she feels as she watches him is not….boredom. Something is coiled in her belly like a snake, an odd feeling that starts in the pit of her belly but works its way up into her chest, infecting her heart. She is not sure if she is nervous, or if this is desire. Perhaps both.
“If you stay,” he says, careful, clever. He’s relaxed like he doesn’t hear her heart thrumming, though she can't imagine that isn't aware of it. One of his fingers pushes into the lump of fruit in his hands, and he takes one seed, puts it on his tongue, swallows. A show, she understands; he is showing her that it will not hurt, that it is not a trick. ”I will give you your freedom. Where I can go, you may go, with or without me. You’ll be free. Your word will be law. You will be a leader, a queen. Can you really go back to being a little girl, Persephone? You have already told the little messenger I’ve had you; I cannot think of a reason you did so, unless you wish that I would.”
His eyes are stormy, bedroom eyes; she could have a man with those eyes, yes. Does she want him? The snake in her belly sinks its fangs into her hear, and she feels...hunger. Is that a yes? She bites her lips. Her mother would never offer her this, would never want her to experience this.
But she wants this.
He does not touch her, then, but she wishes he would; he looks at her, clever eyes watching her as he brings the fruit to his lips, licks it in a manner that she is faintly sure is licentious, a crude enchantment that warms her blood even if she isn’t sure what he’s miming. He sees the effect, though. He reaches out a hand and holds her warm cheek. When he does so, she realizes dimly that she has leaned toward him, so consumed in watching his ruby red tongue in the shocking maroon of the fruit. He holds her face gently for a moment before carefully breaking away, reverently putting the fruit and the knife down upon his side table. She does not lean back to the safety of her throne, her blood betraying her as it beats heavy in her ears; he reassumes his position, this time touching her face with both hands.
Whatever he feels of the maelstrom in her blood pleases him so, for he smiles and darts forward, seeking their union in a kiss.
Her first kiss; it is not kind, but neither is it cruel. He is gentle but insistent, several soft kisses made upon her mouth before he bites her lip a bit and pulls back, measures her reaction. Whatever he sees, it pleases him; he pushes forward again, more kisses, more. She wants…she doesn’t know what she wants. Air, for the moment; she pulls away and is satisfied to hear the great king whimper for her. She stands on shaky legs from her throne but the air does not help her; she wants...more. She takes a step to his and then his hands are there to guide her as she mounts his throne, legs splayed wide to either side of him with his strong hands caressing her legs. She does not care that this must look absolutely wanton, and he does not comment upon it being so.
“More,” she mewls, nonsensically but he nods, deadly serious, and his lips are on hers in a torrential explosion of lust; chasing, biting, kissing. A long unknown instinct makes her open her mouth to him. His tongue sneaks in, moving like a snake; she feels the seed upon it and pushes it back into his own mouth in panic, her eyes gleaming with terror. She holds his throat lightly and he chuckles, makes a show of swallowing it.
“That was a naughty trick. Do not think I am so naïve as to not know what you just attempted,” she hisses. “You are no better than the rest of them.”
“Indeed?” His eyes spark with mischief. “You sit upon my throne, begging for my attention; forgive me, I assumed you had chosen. You are very clever, and I have no doubt you’ve realized this is the only play left for you and I, short of murdering your little brother and sending him back to daddy in pieces.” He leans forward, his lips hot on her neck, and then on her ear. She does not offer any resistance and he takes his time there, gently nibbling and then suckling on her lobe in a way that sends hot bursts of warmth straight into her core.
“Would you like that, little goddess? Me killing him for you? I would do it, just for daring to look upon you with such a lack of respect.” His thumb lightly grazes her lips and she whimpers as he continues his attention on her ear. “Of course that would bring Olympus down on us.”
He leans back, as if he is letting her think on this; one hand goes boldly to her breast, slipping between her robes. His smile when he finds her peaked nipple is carnality incarnate. “I would make war with them for you, little one, and I think you would like that. Zeus' golden palace falling at your word?” His other hand is not inactive; he presses a finger upon her mouth. She takes it in, reassured there is no seed upon it this time. She sucks at it in response to his unspoken question, and his black eyes widen.
“Oh yes,” he says softly. “Oh yes.” There is a growing hardness between her legs; she feels it against her, twitching, is this the sacred male part once whispered of by her nymph companions? She writhes on top of him once and sees him shut his eyes; pleasure? Pain? Both? She cannot tell. She likes it. She does it again and is rewarded with a snap of his hips in wild instinct.
She lets his finger go. She wants to kiss him again, but is afraid to. As if he can read her mind, he chuckles, makes a show of opening his mouth wide. She sticks a finger in his maw to move his clever tongue, to make sure there are no more seeds hiding underneath; it closes around her like a trap, his long tongue forming writhing suction around her finger. It is…good. Yes. She likes this, likes him under her like this. He releases her only when her lips get close enough to meet his. She loses time in that, his lips sliding upon hers, mercilessly lulling her into a pounding song that is so hard to think through.
His hands press upon her ass, pulling her more in contact with the pulsing hardness between them. Is that really all him, underneath her? He is a great deal more alive than the gossip has said, if so. She rubs herself against it, chasing friction; he shudders, and she likes this power over him almost as much as she likes the motion itself. Her hands wind up in his hair; coarse and thick, like him. She moves and he moves with her, slow, rhythmic. A dance, she thinks; pressure and cessation, pressure and release. Somehow, she knows the steps, though she has never danced it before.
“What spell is this you've cast?” She cries out, and he shakes his head, just smiles into her shoulder before his hands go for her clothing. She does not react beyond a soft gasp as he removes the first fibula, no resistance at all as he presses his hands to remove her cloak. He does so cleanly, no shaking to his hands as he folds the fabric reverently on the side table. It feels like he is undressing her like a doll. She does not like it.
His hands move, annoyingly steady; they glide up her arms, set to the task of removing her dress. She shakes her head. “No,” she says; his hands withdraw. Is it her imagination or does the heavy thickness she’s pressed against twitch in reaction?
She takes his hands and puts them on the two sides of his throne. “No?” He asks; less confident now. She has thrown him off his course; she wonders if this isn’t his last play as much as it is hers. She shakes her head. Both of his big, brutal hands ball into fists, and when she stands, he growls, low in his throat. “What’s your game, woman?”
He eyes the door, and she sees the fear in those liquid eyes. No, he does not want her to leave. And maybe she doesn't want to leave, either, looking at him like this, like he wants to devour her but won't, and only because her will demands it of him.
She doesn’t answer, just looks at him, strangely transfixed. Her eyes don’t leave his as she casts her own dress off, snapping her broach and putting it next to her. The dress puddles at her waist, caught in her girdle; she looks away only long enough to undo it. His eyes stay on her; she feels them as she slides it off her legs and kicks it away. She does not stand on ceremony like him and the dress falls in a misshapen puddle somewhere behind her. “It had to be my choice," she says, simply. “I had to be the one to do it.”
“I see,” he gasps. He watches her almost naked body with blatant hunger, and something twitches within her, snaps, drunk on power over the king. Too late to turn back now. She does not think she can, even if she wanted to; she is curious as to what a man feels, and this will be her only chance to know. Better to know than the wonder. She pulls off her innermost covering, thin muslin, before turning back to him, naked and bold. He does not move his arms to help her as she remounts his throne, though she trembles; this is new to her.
“Look at you. Every bit a queen.” He wants to touch her, she can see it. Wants so bad that the armrest cracks from the force of his wanting. She picks up the pomegranate, holds it in her hands. It is warm, though it has never seen the sun and for a second she thinks fates, I am giving up the sun and she falters.
But then she looks at him and sees the way his eyes watch her; hungry, so hungry. A thrill goes through her; one hand hesitantly rises and she nods, and then he's got his hand on her hip in a move that feels both steadying and dizzying. She wonders if this is what love feels like; the flutter in the belly, the obvious proof of his arousal. Or is it simple lust? She’s not sure. They’ll have eternity to find out.
“You’ve chosen, then?” He asks, soft. His hands are steady but his voice is not, quivering with a delicacy she had not thought him capable of. She cups his sharp cheek and he grabs her hand, kisses it. Doesn’t look away.
“I have conditions. Demands, really.” She puts both hands on his shoulders with confidence she does not feel; she is shaking. He leans forward, pulls her head down to meet him, kisses her—once—on the mouth.
“I will hear them,” he says, with all the deadly seriousness of his station despite the intimacy of the moment. He doesn’t move away; holds her naked body close, tight. She feels his heart beating against her own; it is beating very fast, indeed.
“I will have your worship, in every sense of the word. And you will have mine.”
“An easy request.” He smiles against her cheek. “I concede.”
“I will know why you picked me.” He separates from her, honest surprise on his face. She shakes her head. “Do not tell me it is because of politics. You could have had Hebe or Eileithyia easier, Hera wouldn’t fight a royal marriage the way my mother is.” And they were easy to have, her half-sisters; Hebe would have given up her virginity for shiny stones, Eilei, she thinks, wouldn’t even need that. “Or did my father not give you a choice among his daughters?"
He leans in, his big hands gently touching her face. She doesn’t complain, but she doesn’t collapse into his arms, either, instead waiting like a statue perched upon his lap. He doesn’t get to distract her with kisses now; it is too critical a juncture.
“I chose you, Persephone, because you are brilliant,” he says. It is not the word she would expect to be plied with, a fuzzy word that has too many options; brilliant beauty? Brilliant mind? What he says will tell her what he values more.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are…bright. Sharp. You have a natural tendency to weigh motives, actions; to read what is said and unsaid. You are…a natural queen. We would rule well together.” He chuckles as he leans into her; feather light, his heavy nose against hers. “Your sisters would have either given in at once or refused and quailed but you, my dear…You can see the long view, the art of never leading me on too much or sending me away too unsatisfied. In my realm, subtly is an art and eternity is the only view. I should think eternity with you would be….promising.” His head slips from hers, kisses her neck, her shoulder. “You are very….radiant. A true diamond among Olympian coal.”
“Am I supposed to believe the nine days have been a test, that you would not have been perfectly happy to see me hike my skirts up for you on the first day? That you would not press your advantage if I let your seed in my mouth?” He stops kissing her.
He says nothing for a long moment, just holding her close, and then, razor-quick, he looks up at her, smiles sharp enough to cut glass. He kisses her, cutting her to the quick; his touch is swift, exact. “As I said, you are very smart.”
“But so are you.”
“Oh, yes.” His eyes are coal, black as night and just as obscuring. They are eyes one could look into forever, eyes one could fall into and never climb out of. “God of good counsel, you know, is one of my titles…and I suppose, now, one of yours.”
“I'm not through with my demands yet. I want…fidelity.” It is as much a practical matter as much as a political one; she is not blind to the fact she is a bastard child of the king above and, unlike Hebe or Eilei, quite out of the running for that throne. Doing this will remove her from her mother's protections as well, no matter how much love they hold between them. She would prefer not to suffer the bastards of the king below without consequence.
Besides, she has never liked to share.
“Fidelity?” He chuckles. “I am not my brothers. Are you as jealous as I, little diamond?”
“If I am yours, I am yours alone. And you will be mine.” She pulls back to fall into his eyes; they are cool, calm. He does not seem angry with her demand so much as curious. “I will not be Hera to your Zeus.”
“My appetites are far more restrained.” He shrugs. “I will swear on the Styx to take no other lover, provided you do the same. Fair is fair; I’ll not play cuckold to a mere slip of a girl.”
“A Queen. Not a girl.” She exerts her authority for the first time. His eyes sparkle; she thinks he likes it. And she must force him to bear on this point. If she gives up the sun, he gives up his chariot. Sacrifice, compromise; that is a queen's duty, she thinks.
“To me, you are queen. To them?” He smiles as he points upward, cutting to the quick. “A daughter, a niece. Docile and easy to rape. Do not think them beyond such; my brothers are not so modern as to think of a goddess being their equal, alas. Hence why they think they will find some magical quim of satisfaction if only they look exhaustively; they have never realized it is the brain that is the core of a woman, not the cunt. They are fools, yes, but powerful ones. If they see you subjecting me to monogamy without practicing it yourself, they will think me weak and you a whore and attack us both. A shared oath will show us as a united front, if perhaps eccentric in their eyes. Politics. I ask again, my queen: if I swear a stygian oath, will you swear such in return?”
“I will swear it.” She would have done it anyway, but she is more receptive when he calls her his queen. It is good, she thinks, that he recognizes her as that already. If nothing else, she has stopped him from taking mortal brides, her sacrifice saving an eternity of Europa's; this will keep them bound to one another, and surely in the absence of choice, what choice will they have but to love one another?
A seed needs both soil and solitude, she thinks, to grow. And sun, she thinks, but that thought gets choked in her throat. There is no sun here.
He clears his throat, raises his hand. “I, Hades, king of the Underworld and son of Cronos and Rhea, swear so long as I be married to Persephone, queen of the Underworld and daughter of Zeus and Demeter, I shall not take any other goddess, god, nymph, satyr, mortal, or shade as my lover. None shall be my bedmate but her, and if I choose differently may the black lake rise up and drown me deep in her depths, never to surface until she deems it so allowed. Is that sufficient?”
She kisses him in answer and he groans, hand slipping underneath his robes to squeeze at something. She repeats his oath back to him and then he is kissing her, faster and faster.
“is this the end of your negotiations?” He asks, gesturing toward the door. “I should like to consummate this agreement before daddy’s little messenger can get up his courage and call daddy to come to break through the door. I could perhaps take my brother but...it hardly feels a fair fight, not with a lovely, naked woman on my lap.”
“No, but almost.” she says; two things more. “First: I would see you fully.” He smiles a sort of odd half smile but complies, waving her to stand and pulling his robes open slowly.
“I hope I am to your liking,” he says, undoing his own vestments and neatly pulling them away; she looks slowly, one hand traveling down his arm. He is an odd thing underneath; he has even more scars to his skin, angry lines that suggest his service in the war that ended long before her birth. He is bigger, broader than what she has seen on men of Olympus; his chest is long and wide. She sits back on his knee, hesitantly touches his chest.
It is not cold. Something inside it moves like thunder.
Gathering her bravery, she looks lower. His inherently male parts stand for her attention; thick and long and strange as the rest of him, the skin dusky with ichor straining underneath. She reaches slowly to touch it; his hands scramble to help her, wrapping her palm around her cock eagerly. It is smooth and strange, thicker and stiffer than a flower’s stamen but no less velvety smooth. He helps her move her fingers around him, gliding her hand up and down.
“Yes. Just like that,” he says, but she cannot see how he likes this, her hand awkwardly sliding from tip to base and back. It is not a perfect fit; she can’t entirely close a fist around it but when she tries to squeeze him tightly to attempt it, his face breaks, like granite tumbling down a mountain.
He closes his eyes, jaw half-open in a look that makes her feel half-lost already. She shivers, almost dropping the fruit held in her other hand, but there he is, helping to keep it in her arms. She is building a rhythm now; tip to base and back again. She pumps his cock and is relieved to see him hiss. A drop of liquid from him falls onto her palm and she wonders, for a moment, what death would taste like. His hands still her, and she swallows, newfound heat flowing through her.
She knows what he wants, why he’s stopping her. She wonders, idly, if it will hurt. It does not matter. It will have to be done and they are out of time for any other path to be taken.
“Am I sufficient?” He rumbles through a strained whisper; she nods, pink staining her cheeks. His eyes slide open, and his hand slides to the pomegranate tucked in her arm. “Then get on with the eating,” he says. “I tire of the games.”
She grabs the pomegranate. Moment of truth, she supposes. “Last demand. I want to visit my mother. At least once a year…I do not think she will come here, in all honesty.”
“Visit…?” His mouth slims into a thin line. He is displeased and makes little effort to not look so. “What proof will I have of your return?”
“Your trust in your wife.” She shoots back, a bit too quick; she sees him falter. “As I will trust you to not take a dozen nymphs to bed the moment I leave.”
“Ah, but I am bound in that matter, am I not, wife?” He squeezes her arm softly; he is too good a negotiator to bring his demand out in the open, and for a moment she runs through scenarios, trying to avoid swearing herself to this land.
“I…will swear I will return to you for as long as both shall live,” she says; bound to the man is better than bound to the land. “May the Styx grab me and bring me to your throne if I refuse to come.”
“Thank you.” He grabs the pomegranate from her, delicately plucks out a kernel, and holds his finger up to her. “Are we in accord, then? Will you join me on the eternal throne, little diamond?”
She raises an eyebrow; as if he has to ask. This is not the most ideal option but it is the best she has and surely, they both know it. He holds his hand higher, insistent. Important to him, she supposes.
She bends down and sucks it clean off his finger. The groan he makes as she swallows drives a jolt to her system; he presses her closer, and without clothes on, the hand on her ass is a lot more demanding, the hard and inherently male part of him all but overpoweringly present.
“How many?” She grabs the pomegranate back from him, slides one in her mouth and he pursues her, his mouth moving on hers; one kiss, two. A bit of juice hits her lips and he licks it off her. The underworld pomegranate tastes similar to those of the world above, but far more sour than sweet.
She swallows the second seed, and he strokes her face. “Good girl,” he says, and the praise swims through her veins, thick like honey. “Four more, I think. More than six, you’ll not be able to go up again and…” His face falls into a frown. “Well, you are right your mother will not come here.”
“Alright.” She pulls out another and offers it to him; he takes it with his tongue off her hand, smiling. It is a game between them; she chases the seed, sticking her tongue in his mouth and wrestling it back from him. He likes her boldness; his hips slide back into the old rhythm with her, only now the hardness pokes her in the belly instead of simply laying under her. He is eager, she thinks; it feels almost painful, the hardness of him, and if it feels that way for her, she can't imagine how it must feel for him. She wishes she could touch it, see his face as she did, but she needs one arm for balance, and the other holds her fated fruit in her hands. When she finally gets the seed from his tongue, he holds her head to ensure that it passes successfully, and chuckles with half-lidded eyes as he watches her swallow.
Something twists in her in alarm, seeing his half-lidded pleasure. She frowns and pokes at it, and a feeling of sorrow rushes into her, potent enough to make her gasp. What is she doing? They’ve never even had sex yet. How can she know if-if they’re even compatible in that way? If she enjoys such an act? If he does? If seven seeds would doom her to eternity here, how much time has she already given him? She cannot promise him more without ensuring their...full compatibility. She drops the fruit.
The smile on his face fades when she puts down the pomegranate. “You’re not done, little Queen,” he growls, but that anger fades when her warm hand grabs him, stroking him again. His arms hold hers, a startling vulnerability in his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I decided before we make it, ah, final…” She swallows, tries to smile seductively. “I want to sample the other fruit of the underworld,” she hums; she plays at an imitation of what he did before, leaning to his side and sucking on his earlobe. He moans, his hips bucking against her. She takes that for permission and continues, nibbling lightly.
He mutters something in an old language she doesn’t know, something that makes her heart beat a bit fast in instinctual fear. She pulls back, stares at his face which betrays nothing.
“What did you call me?” She asks; he smiles, raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t answer right away. HIs finger glides from her waist to further south; it pokes apart her lips and his finger slowly probes at her opening. It is everything her mother said it would be; painful and uncomfortable, and she winces into his shoulder, worrying she has made a great and terrible mistake. He pulls back a second, notices her face; frowns. She wants to take control here, but she doesn't know what to do.
They stare at one another for an awful moment.
“Praxidike. It is a title among our ancestors,” he murmurs. “I called you what you are. A queen, an empress. It….did not occur to me that you would be uncomfortable with titan.”
“I’m not. Say it again,” she hisses; if she must have pain, she needs to keep her mind on the power that will be her pleasure. To her relief, he stops trying to enter her; instead, his fingers glide against the nub of her sex and she whimpers, closes her eyes.
“Praxidike,” he whispers, his fingers singing a hymn to her with their movements; this feels right and true, and she feels herself blossoming under his touch. This touching is better; softer. No pain. He kisses her throat as he rubs slow circles into her, and she throws her neck back so he has more space to work with. This…this is nicer. This, she likes. He chuckles and repeats his actions in lazy circles, in no hurry to move on beyond adorning her with kisses and his finger’s delicate stroking.
There is a soft wetness to her now; she can hear it when his fingers move; this time, one finger glides down and she doesn’t tense. His digit slips inside her and it does not hurt. He curls it a bit and she jumps in his arms, feeling stupidly vulnerable. He holds her closer in response. “Relax, little diamond.”
For a moment, his hands alternate; a stroke to her nub, then down the slickness to her opening, then inside. It's not so bad, she thinks; she glides her hands down his shoulders unsure of how to touch him. She glares at his face, frustrated, and he chuckles.
“Impatient?” he whispers. “We'll try for two.”
She shudders, wishes he would just shove his cock in and be done with it. As if he can tell what she's thinking, he laughs, and it isn't a particularly nice sound but she enjoys it all the same.
“You’ll have my cock soon enough,” he whispers into her ear. “Relax.”
The second finger is harder to take than the first; his fingers are big, and the movement he makes—quick in and out motions—feels strange. Not painful but uncomfortable, as if someone is pulling a flower’s petals open to peer inside. After a few moments, his fingers go deeper, too; she can feel his fingers fumbling deeper, stretching wider; beyond her opening now. He scrapes his fingers against some spot inside of her and she gasps; he chuckles. The fingers curl inside her once, then again, and again, and again until her legs are shaking; there is something to this that feels pleasurable, in a strange and heady way. She looks down to his hand and sees it covered in wetness. Is that from her? She blinks, fuzzyheaded, as the stretching burn amplifies. She cries out, but he just picks up the tempo, his soaking wet fingers flying toward the spot inside that makes her jump.
“Three,” he says, and there is an odd pride in his voice. “Good girl; let me in.”
“Queen,” she hisses, trying to take back control; she is only by the slimmest of technicalities a maiden, and, truthfully, she isn’t sure how long her maidenhead will last against this assault. She holds on as best as she can as his hand flexes, fingers curling and moving, sending her down a white-hot current that riots through her blood. She moves her hips up and down, seeking instinctual satisfaction, and then, all of a sudden, his hand is gone.
She cries out as he pulls out his hand; it is covered in her own slickness and she shudders as he brings his hand up to his mouth, making a big deal of licking all three of the fingers he’s had in her.
“You taste exquisite.” He tells her, his eyes mercilessly carnal. “And now, I think we shall finish this. Would you prefer to lay down? I cannot offer you the comfort of a bed without scandalizing your brother but… I can summon a pillow to provide some cushion for you. If you need it.” His heavily-lidded look suggests that he disdains the thought of requiring anything more than the cold ground.
“I want…” She trails off; she does not know much about lovemaking; if this can even really be counted as that. He cocks an eyebrow; kisses her cheek with something that might be affection. A seed must grow, she thinks. A seed must grow. And she knows how to water it. “This is my coronation, is it not? On the iron throne is surely most appropriate.”
He pulls back, surprise written on his face, and for a moment she fears she has gone too far before he chuckles and pulls her mouth down for a kiss. “Oh, yes. You are the perfect choice for me, little diamond.” He pulls his iron crown off his head, places it gently on hers. It is heavy, but it stands on her head. His hands move, shifting her body for what she knows must happen and wills her face to not show her fear. A Queen must be invulnerable.
“Hail to the queen,” he murmurs, before shoving her hips down as he moves up and then…it is done. She can’t stop herself from gasping; his cock is bigger than his fingers and the burn is much, much worse. She hides her head in his big shoulder as he presses forward; it hurts so much! She prays to the marriage goddess as she has never prayed before in her life; Hera, Hera, help me; please, take this pain.
But she does not know if Hera listens to prayers from down below. Or would ever listen to a prayer from her, a second rate bastard goddess of her husband’s loins. And it is perhaps, she thinks, a bit shameful to show such weakness; a Queen should be invulnerable.
But she does not feel invulnerable now.
“Shh,” he says, rubbing his cheek against hers. She suspects he is trying to give her comfort, but then he pushes deeper still and she gasps again. “Halfway,” he says, and she quails; how can there be more to him than this? She feels pulled open, split asunder.
“Hurts,” she whispers.
“I know. Won’t always, little queen. Has to be done.” He pulls her face to him and kisses her proper, shuddering. He moves forward again, this time faster; his kisses and caresses smother the sting and she holds tight. The pain is fading, but it still feels…odd. She tries to move but he holds her tight, forcing her to be still.
“Is there…more?” she shudders. She is too afraid to look down, to see him inside her. He does not have the same aversion, she notices.
“No,” he hums with an odd strain in his voice. He sounds…unfocused. She wonders if it is painful for him; her mother never told her if men derive pleasure from this, though she thinks they must or she wouldn’t have nearly so many brothers and sisters. He holds her close, stroking her back delicately. His movements are so slow she isn’t sure if he is doing anything more than breathing. He cups her cheek and kisses her slowly; long kisses that leave her a little dizzy. He doesn’t allow her to catch her breath before giving her another kiss, and then another.
“You are my wife, now,” he says when he finally pulls away; there is a strange expression on his face, and his words sound almost dream-like. “My wife, little diamond.”
“And you are my husband,” she says, trying out the word on her tongue; it fits, though it still feels strange. She shifts and feels him move with her; they are one now. She shifts a bit more and he groans. “My king,” she whispers.
“My queen,” he hisses as he withdraws slightly, then presses himself back up into her. It doesn’t hurt so badly this time, and he is satisfied, she sees, by the look in his eyes. He flexes forward again, back again; the strokes are short, experimental. His hand reaches out to touch her cheek and guides her into a soft, pleasing kiss.
This behavior is more tender than she thought he would be. He moves slowly, gently; they don’t have much time and she knows it and he knows it too but still: slow and gentle. “Try to relax,” he whispers in a little huff; she bites her lips, trying to figure out the mechanics of this act. She moves her hips forward and back a little bit; he stiffens underneath her but the look he gives her suggests that he finds her movement pleasing.
"Is this...?"
He smiles as she moves again, trying to figure out how to have him hit that spot that makes her feel so good. “Yes,” he murmurs softly. “Oh yes. Just like that.” Then he is beyond words himself, grunting as he withdraws and slams himself back in a long stroke. She gasps at the moment and he watches her, eyes so obviously scrutinizing her, as he does it again. And again. She experimentally wiggles her hips against him and he groans, looks back at her with a surprised expression on his face.
It takes her a few moments to find his rhythm, but she does, moving her hips back against him. He likes this, she thinks; he groans loudly, loud enough Hermes might hear, and ups the tempo, forcing his cock into her, his hips nearly coming up off the throne to do it. She clamps down on him, trying to keep moving at the same speed.
It is a war they are having, she thinks, or a dance; he presses forward, he withdraws; she does the same. Her knees hurt from being scrapped against the iron throne and yet she cannot stop moving her hips against him; there is lightning in her belly, and she has to move. He helps her, his hands going under her ass and helping her keep rhythm with him.
His cock scrapes the point inside of her that makes her leg shake, and the quicker the tempo she sets, the more he is hitting just the right place. He presses a hand down on her ass, trying to keep himself deep as he thrusts, and she whimpers as suddenly he is hitting that pleasured place so much she can’t do anything but hold on. She shuts her eyes and whimpers; his breath hitches with hers.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. “My little queen, please. I want to see you…”
She watches his eyes; they are dark things but like this, he is an open book. He looks at her with softness in those eyes, with pride that makes her shiver and shake as much as his cock between her legs. The pressure in her hips has slipped from a strange compulsion to maddening one; every part of her wants him to keep thrusting into her and every part of her needs to thrust back. She is not sorry of her choice now, no; could not live without knowing this.
He cups her cheek and looks at her. “Brilliant,” he whispers.
He picks up the pace even faster and she cries out, wanton, as one of his hands moves to the nub at the tip of her sex, gliding it in time with his cock, which feels…oh mother. This is not how her mother told her sex could feel. There was pain at the beginning, yes, but this is something else entirely; pleasure, hedonistic and sacred and so, so true.
An all-consuming drive to rut fills her; so overwhelming, all she can do is embrace it. She cries out as this instinctual drive takes hold of her body; she is moving against him, faster and faster. She feels like he is everywhere inside her, like he is pulling her apart with his cock and his fingers and it is — even for gods, it is too much. The pressure building in her is not painful but it is there, ever-present, and then it is all she can feel as they move together and she is shaking, shaking, shaking and then she is exploding, an internal bud flowering inside her in every direction, like the narcissus he lured her here with.
She screams as he slams deep, losing her rhythm, and she wonders if Hermes can hear it, can hear her cries or the soft noise of his cock as it dives into her again and again. The wetness of it sounds…lewd, she thinks. Overwhelmed, she flops forward onto his chest and he chuckles, just holds her tight as he hammers into her.
“You’re so beautiful, when you come,” he murmurs; his thrusts are erratic; she wonders if she could render in him the same undoing as she’s experienced. She squeezes her muscles on impulse and he shudders, and she thinks she has never seen anything so beautiful as when that granite face melts for her. He is throbbing, impossibly hard and she squeezes him with everything she has to give him and is satisfied to hear him stutter and moan. He is close to his own peak, she thinks.
“Give me your seed,” she hisses, and he nods, holds his head to hers and kisses her reverently one more time. It’s a garden, she thinks; they are the garden, and a seed between them will grow. It will. She will be the sun; he will be the soil.
He closes his eyes and she shivers. “I want to see you,” she says, for in this, he can hide nothing. She taps his cheek and those big black-brown eyes snap into her as he drives his hands down on her hips hard; one, two, three thrusts and then he is pulsing, pulsing, holding her tightly. She loses herself watching him as he shivers, staring into her eyes and hiding nothing from her. He doesn’t move again but she feels his wetness inside of her and knows.
It’s done.
She is no longer a maiden; can no longer be referred to as Kore. She is a married woman now; his wife. Queen of a third of a cosmos.
She doesn’t really feel much different. Hades, for his part, is still panting from her coronation but he wastes no time, grabs the fruit and holds out a palm with three seeds. No words this time, just the seeds. She licks each off his hand, making a show of swallowing each that his dark eyes miss nothing of. Exhausted, she leans on his chest as he nuzzles her cheek with his own.
It feels…nice.
This…could work, she thinks. They could work. Will have to work, now. He puts his hand on hers and she feels an odd feeling, like her finger is tingling; when she looks down, she sees he is summoning filaments across her fourth finger, filaments that slowly form into a golden ring. A bump on his hand tells her he has done the same for himself. He is still catching his breath, but she can tell he is pleased with his handiwork by the way he threads their ringed hands together. She does not give the crown back, and he does not ask. He is the ruler of riches; he can make another.
“What happens now?” She murmurs, looking up at him. She squeezes his hand with hers and he smiles.
“We enjoy a moment to ourselves as husband and wife.” He waves a hand toward the door. “Then we deal with your brother.”
“I mean…” She bites her lip. Deal with means a lot of things. “After.”
“After scandalizing your brother half to death? My thought is we’ll go up and see your father and mother. Argue. It will go in our favor. If we are lucky, your mother will feel better when she sees you are unharmed, happy, and well provided for, and if she is so relieved, she and my brother will take the path of least resistance.”
Her heart sinks; there are a lot of ifs in that statement. And momma, she knows, will not be relieved in the least. He must see the disappointment on her face, for he sighs.
“But…if your mother is her usual self and gets obstinate, refuses anything less than your full return…” He puts his hand on his forehead. “Then I will need to pull rank and demand you. But I will not abandon you, little flower, if that’s your fear.” He kisses her again, softer, bit sweeter, and she thinks: yes, this makes her feel good; an unexpected burn in her blood. “You are a woman now, in every way. I will go to war to Olympus for them to respect your choice if need be.”
“You need to respect my choices, too,” she murmurs; he huffs in response.
“I have conceded to all your demands, have I not?”
“You did,” she admits, squeezing his hand with hers. “So you did. But…” She leans back on her sore knees until she can see his dark eyes, and doesn’t break eye contact as she gently cradles his jaw in her hands. “Don’t underestimate me in counsel, either. I…I want to find my own way. I don’t want to just be seen on Olympus as just your little wife, or just mama’s baby girl. I’m my own woman.”
“Oh, I fully believe you’re far more than that,” he murmurs; his eyes are sharp and so is his smile. He pulls her forward gently, just a bit, kisses her almost chastely. “I did marry you for your brain, diamond.”
“And my brain has a third of the universe at my beck and call now,” she says, clasping his cheek. He chuckles, and bids her rise. She stands, but feels his eyes on her as she redresses, and to her surprise he helps her do so, gently re-attaching her broach on the shoulders and helping her secure her girdle. He snaps his fingers after she’s dressed and prepares his clothes the immortal way – not that he has much choice, for they have quite ruined his old clothes in their commingling. It would not do, she thinks, for her mother’s first sight of her brother-cum-son-in-law to be in that.
“I suppose you are ready to face the viper’s nest on Olympus?” He asks; holding out his hand. She doesn’t grab it, instead gesturing him to bend down. His hair is wildly out of order; he raises his eyebrows but does as she asks. She gently smoothes his hair back; the look on his face shifts, and to her surprise, he moves and kisses her, his hands cupping her cheeks. It’s chaste, but sweet, and her heart beats a little faster in response.
“What was that for?” She asks as he pulls away.
“I find I am happy to be married and wish to give my bride a kiss. Would she prefer I did not?” His eyes seem uncertain, and she wonders if has some of the same worries she has. 9 days, after all, is not much time to fall in love for a man, any more than it is for a woman.
“She thinks you should kiss her again. She likes the kissing,” she mutters, her cheeks no doubt a dark pink. She looks down as she says it and misses his reaction, but then he tilts her cheek up and kisses her; chaste again at first, but then less so, the kisses increasing in tempo. She moans when he deepens the kiss, his tongue mating hers, and neither of them really comes up for air until absolutely necessary.
“You are good to kiss,” he says, with a far-away sound to his voice. “I regret that we must see to Hermes. If it weren’t for your annoying brother…” His hand cups her bottom in a way that can’t be called anything but blatant. “I think I should like to have you again.”
“I…” She bites her lip; she remembers the pain and isn’t sure she wants that, at least not yet. He stops in his tracks toward the door and she does too, feeling embarrassed.
“I won’t rush you,” he murmurs. “I would have preferred your introduction to such acts have been slower, but circumstances being what they are…Well. We did what must be done. But do not fear. We will take things slower next time, and it will not always hurt. We will…adapt, together. And there are ways to please one another that do not require penetration. Perhaps we will work on those first?”
“That…may best for tonight,” she says, grabbing his hand and feeling foolish. She wishes she was a more powerful thing, but he is all too quick to see her shame. "Sorry."
“You shouldn’t apologize. No harm has been committed. I am glad that you feel there will be a tonight.” He kisses her hand and grins, carnally. “Ah, my little diamond, I think tonight I will sate my desire for your taste with my tongue."
“Oh!” She blushes, her face bright red. He laughs, and it is…not a bad sound, no. It makes her stomach flip in pleasing ways, the honey from her veins spilling in new places.
“Now,” he whispers in her ear, and that, too, makes her stomach turn itself into knots. “Let’s go see your mother.”
He takes her hand in one hand and grabs his bident out of the door in the other; she opens the door, and Hermes looks up from his spot on the floor. He has heard everything, she thinks; his face is almost green, and she suspects he will not look her in the eye for the next few months.
“Jeez, Seph,” he grouses, staring into the marble floor. “Did you really have to…?”
“Yes,” she hisses with authority. Hades looks on in what she thinks is curious approval; his eyebrows are raised high, and there’s a soft smile on his face. “After some …discussion, my husband and I have decided we will obey the lightning god’s summons. Tell him we will be on our way.”
“Uh — it’s dad. You can just call him dad.”
“The woman said her peace,” Hades murmurs. “I will give you my chariot, Hermes; we can all ride together.”
“Uhm, actually,” Hermes looks down at his feet as he rises, wings out, and didn’t meet her eyes. Or Hades’. “I think I’ll go ahead actually. Uh. Not to gossip or anything just uh…announce you. Right. Okay. Bye.”
“Goodbye,” Hades deadpans, a small grin on his face. She leans in and watches Hermes go, as fast as she thinks she has ever seen him run.
“You know, he is going to gossip mercilessly until we get there, right?”
“Of course, but we will be fortunate enough not to hear it. And anything he says will be so dire that your poor mother will be outright relieved to see you – a married woman, or no.” He squeezes her hands as he leads her back to the chariot.
“Politics, huh?”
“Oh yes.” He puts her back on the chariot he took her down on nine days ago, and she feels both exactly the same and entirely different as she boards it. He stands behind her, his bulk strangely reassuring. She grabs the reigns and cracks them, and he looks up in surprise.
“I’m driving,” she says, in a way that brooks no argument.
He throws his head back and laughs. “As you will, my wife. I will simply…” He curls his arms around her belly in a way that almost makes her drop the reigns, and she tightens her grip, swallowing. “...admire your form,” he whispers.
“You do that,” she says, softly. “And watch me run circles around you and mama both.” It is a promise, she thinks; she will find a way between them, a way to be happy even if it means she’ll have to cleave the path herself.
“I don’t doubt it, my flower,” he murmurs. “I will enjoy watching you…blossom. I will support you, unless you choose to go against me entirely. But…I do not think there is much risk of that.” He kisses her neck in a scalding promise, and she nods, jaw set in iron as strong as her crown. There's room between them, she thinks; room to find a path that is uniquely hers, something that might not satisfy daddy or momma or Hades but she has to work for herself and she will. She has a third of the cosmos at her back, momma's love in her stars. She will find a compromise, and she will make them all - well, content with it at least, if not happy. There's a story to be written here, she thinks.
And she will write it.