Archive of Our Own ^beta

When she was a young girl, and the world was younger too, Hades’ penchant for showin’ up in unexpected places was a joyous occasion. The first time he’d come a little early — she’d forgotten, now, how early, but not much, a day or two — she’d shouted, and he’d grinned, and they’d gone home together and that had been that.

She hadn’t thought much of it; been honored, really, that this big important husband of hers had cared enough to want her just a bit more than he should. Liked, maybe, that he was older and more powerful than the boys in her generation, but he was still willing to thumb his nose at the fates just a tiny little bit. Man of opportunity, he was, and she’d seized him, followed him way down under the ground for six months and however many days, and had gone with a song and a dance in her heart.

Now, the first few times, she was a little selfish, as we all are when love blinds our eyes. She didn’t notice how things got cold fast when she was gone. Didn’t notice that every day he came early was one less when it came to her followers up top having food and shelter. For all her part in this passion play, Persephone never really suffered winter. Though she was aware of its existence, she was aware of it on a clinical level — like death, it was something that only happened to other people. She was a goddess, and a benevolent one, but just as a human doesn’t look for ants under their feet, well, Persephone didn’t notice the suffering of the humans as the world slipped underneath her heel. Didn’t notice the faces growing longer and the bellies growing louder, not at first.

As far as him — she knew he didn’t have the option of not noticing. He knew every damn person who died, heard the prayers of everyone who prayed for help and shelter and mercy because death, so often, was the only mercy any of their kind could offer. He decided a little human misery was worth her company, and in a gut-sick way, she felt honored by that once her initial sickness at that realization had passed. It was terribly flattering, she thought, that he would let the world burn to hold her hand.

But it wasn’t that easy for her to turn away. He didn’t have to see the people before, mind; only once they’d crossed that final river. Now her, she saw them both ways, saw them living and hale and whole and shadows and pale and cold. She caught on gradually, staring at those now cold faces, that for every day she stayed, they suffered worse. She knew the second she realized it what it meant: she had to go, and go on time, no dawdling, no coming early. Every six months she’d leave him, and he’d hate it.

“Stay,” he’d beg her, at first, from their four-post bed, soft as down and sweet as a flower bed. “Stay with me, lover.” He called her that often, one of his little pet names. It was an old fashioned sort of nickname and she loved it, felt like it was some kind of invocation or prayer he’d make, just to her. But the more time they spent together, the more the old invocation started to feel smothering, like he was compelling her to love him, like he was commanding her as a king and not as her husband. “You stay, lover, and I’ll make it worth your while,” he’d promise, and the words were full of love. She knew he didn’t beg other girls, other boys; just her. Just her. She was the only thing that big, important man ever got down on his knees for.

The first few years, she was mighty tempted to stay forever and ever with him. He could sing a pretty song in that whiskey-deep voice, cool as the Earth. A few times, she wavered and the humans paid the price. She stayed an extra week or two, smothered up against the great man’s big shoulder while he hummed his love into her skin and she didn’t regret a damn word of it until she thought of the ones she was neglecting glarin’ at her, wondering if this was worth their sacrifice.  Sooner or later, she’d think of those gaunt faces up above, think of the snow and the cold and the frost, and she’d spit some poison-sickness made of her own guilt, and then she’d go.

“I got a job to do,” she’d say, and she’d get up, and she wouldn’t look at him as she dressed, feeling like he looked at her like a whore in his disgust, rather than just takin’ in the sight of his wife as she wore another woman’s colors. She’d dress the way her mama preferred, green as a shoot, and she knew he thought it made her look foolish, young. She kept her hair unbound and knew he hated the thought that someone else might get to touch it.

“You could have a job here,” he’d offer, and she’d just shake her head. Wasn’t going to change, their love song. This was what he signed on for, all those years ago.

He would just have to deal with it, she reasoned in those early years.

She didn’t know he would see that and he would take it as a challenge. She didn’t know what those six months without her was like for him, didn’t know all the poison he’d poured into his own damn ear about how she’d fall out of love with him. She did know, however, that her leavin’ pissed him off, as it always did, and she always left a little disappointed at that at first, then resentful, then outright angry as the years rolled by and still, he left her mad. Every year he’d watch her go, glarin’ furiously as he watched her go back to the upper world.

And the people upstairs? They were angry, too. She would see it in their eyes as she danced, as she tried to have a good time six months out of every twelve. They’d look at her and think of him: she was a death dealer, a merciless, selfish bitch for whom the world would burn. Humans looked at the patroness of the world’s bounty and saw death, and Persephone resented it.

And resented him for making it so.

And maybe her heart grew hard in a couple of ways. Maybe she didn’t dance so much for the humans, anymore, as much as for herself. Just doin’ the best I can, she’d snap at anyone who got too close as she teetered from one drink to the next. Maybe she didn’t write to him, based on sheer spite. Maybe she burned his letters when he tried to write to her, because he never had anything to say but come home and I miss ya and it was bad enough she already felt guilty six months out of every twelve and the letters just made it worse. Maybe sometimes she’d trip into a crack and swear at him, knowin’ damn well he could hear every insult and invocation she threw at him way down under the hard-ass ground. Maybe sometimes she slapped the ground and said nothin’ at all, knowin’ that her silence would drive him madder than an entire hornet’s nest.

And maybe he changed, too. Whether it was in response to her insults, or just two comets happening to align on a collision course in just the right way for self-assured mutual destruction, well, that was hard to say. Hades would come and maybe he’d be a bit less of a sweet talker as he came to nab her, just holdin’ out his hand and expecting she’d fall into step behind him. She always went, but she wasn’t pleased so much anymore, and he saw that, and then he wasn’t pleased so much either. It used to be they’d make love on the way down on his train, hold onto one another with bright and brilliant passion; now she drank a hot beer she’d smuggled in from the summertime hops and he worked on paperwork, barely looking at her. He was always working. He never asked if she wanted a job down there anymore in his big, miserable molehill, and she resented that, too. Instead of making love in the underground, they’d circle one another, fighting and fighting and fighting, six months long.

And sometimes there was tenderness, there, but instead of finding those spots with kisses and soft breathes, they found them instead with their claws and their fangs, cutting deep enough to scar. They used to have these little tender moments, these moments where he’d lean to her or defer to her or just smile at her and in them, she’d know in that that he was thinking she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. There were moments, too, where she’d stroke his shoulder or grumble into his ear and he’d laugh and murmur and those, too, had been an ointment over the cracks in their relationship. But he’d stopped offering his little looks and she’d stopped giving him her little touches and the ointment dried up and now the only tenderness she saw was when they wounded one another.

And they got really, really good at wounding one another. Obsessive about it, really.

“This place is hotter than Tartarus,” she’d grumble, and he’d murmur about how she always preferred it hot upstairs, so what did it matter if it was hot here? He’d swallow bile all the same, upset as all hell that she didn’t make it a secret that she hated his fucking new city. That was the only sign of discomfort on his old patrician face anymore, his little swallowing and muttering, and she’d smirk at having landed a most palpable hit on the old man.

“You smell like my ugly ol’ brother’s forge,” she’d mutter as he tried to kiss her neck, and he’d shrink back like she’d hit him, and snarl that Aphrodite put in an effort to at least look appreciative at her husband’s gifts, though they both knew Aphrodite had been stepping out on her old brother wearin’ his own handiwork since their honeymoon.

“You want me to put in that kind of appreciation? Get myself dolled up so fine in all your jewelry, find some young snack and go to town devourin' him down?” She’d snarl, and she’d see the fear of it in his eyes, knew that that was an ace she’d always have in her hole. He was terrified at the sheer thought of it, that she’d leave him, find someone else who might love her better. In uncharitable moments — and there were a lot of them — she’d thought it was because he knew he was bad at this, knew if she found someone better maybe she’d turn around and just decide his broken ass wasn’t worth it. He’d glare at her, furious, and she’d sashay with all the sensuality she denied him as the liquor soaking her tongue gave her confidence. “Heard them young bucks, you know, they got a lot of stamina. Might just fill myself up on one of ‘em.”

“No,” he’d say, and just smooth his hands down her arms, so angry he could barely breathe. He never hurt her, even in these moments, when his head was so red she thought smoke could pour out of his ears. “No.”

And then he’d kneel, eyes wet, and stare up at her.

Sometimes she’d feel guilty for provoking him like that, but then that great and powerful king would sigh, smirk, and somehow find a way to touch her in spaces only he’d ever touched. “You really think you’d find something so good for you out there as us?” He’d mutter against her belly, hurt outrage and bitter recrimination in a potent cocktail in that dark, deep voice, and she’d ask what was good about this anymore and he’d prove what was, the great man going under her skirts with his tongue and his hands and then she’d think, no, there will never be anyone else. That old devil was a great speaker but his tongue had many talents, and half of them, only she knew. There was terrible power in that, in how much he loved her, so much so that he’d do anything to keep her with him.

And there was terrible power, too, in how much she liked it, liked his loving and liked his desperation, too. They stopped talking for a few years, because every time he opened his fool mouth, they argued about things neither of them could damn well resolve—he missed her, she knew it and she couldn’t stay, and he knew that too but demanded she stay a little longer anyway, and she was so, so tired of arguing about it. It was easier to believe that they weren’t fed up with one another if she just saw the look of love in his eyes in the darkness of the marriage bed, if she dropped by his office to sit on his lap often enough to keep him satisfied. Early on their sex life had been more focused on intimacy, respectful kissin’ and caressin’ and explorin’; this was more desperation, the longing for one another buried in the slap of god-skin on god-skin. They used to kiss; that didn’t happen, anymore. Even getting undressed happened less and less; in bed, sometimes, she barely bothered to get his drawers down before she was on top of him and in his office, he only hiked her skirt up far enough to make sure he was aimin’ right.  Every time they fucked (this wasn’t making love, really, not anymore), he’d just stare at her with love in his eyes and bury himself in her, and she’d pour her love out on him, and then she’d leave before they could say anything that hurt one another.

Sometimes, they didn’t time it quite right, and the poison leaked out anyway.

“This all I am to you? Your own, personal stud horse?” He asked on the last day of winter, after she’d mounted him three times in one day. He sounded annoyed underneath the stupid joke and probably was; she’d had him on their bed before he’d felt the siren call of his bookkeeping, then again in his office for a mid-afternoon snack (he never went home for lunch, not anymore), and had practically shoved herself on top of him the second she heard him turn the knob to their bedroom door. It was desperation, she knew, but she wanted him, needed him, had to touch and feel him and try hard to pretend that this was love, that they were still in love. He had her on his lap as he whispered it, and chuckled at his own ugly joke as he kissed her throat. It was one of his many bad attempts at humor, but all it made her feel was angry, the insinuation that she needed him for nothing else, the insinuation that this was all there was left to them.

“You can’t stud anything, you old gelding,” she’d hissed, and he’d been angry enough to pull out of her, throw her down on their bed. He left without another word, just slammed the door and left her to the silence of the underworld. Something that felt a bit like regret lanced through her then; it was a sensitive topic for him, she knew. He was bitter that his brothers had had thousands of children and yet in all their frankly copious breeding practice he hadn’t given her a single child and she knew he did want children, wanted it like he wanted her here all the time. He was traditional and that was his damn ideal, she thought: her as his good little wife at his side, barefoot and pregnant with his god-child.

The thought made her angry and it didn’t matter if the reason for her anger was true or not, so long as she could stew in it long enough to justify fishing out her old flash and fillin’ it up with some of his good whiskey. She drank about half the bottle before her anger dimmed enough to seek him out. She assumed he’d stomped off to the nursery — dearly put together but never used, ‘cept for the bed, which she knew he sometimes slept in. It was where he retreated to when she was gone, when he missed her too much to stay in their big bed all alone, and sometimes where he’d go after an argument, too. More than once she’d found him there, fingers carefully rubbing his hands over the bars of a cradle he’d made for her centuries ago, as if reminding himself just what was the whole damn reason for this venture.

But this time, he wasn’t there. Not in their guest rooms either, nor in the study she’d built him literal eons ago. An unpleasant thought filled her head for a second, that perhaps he’d gone down and seduced one of the maids or menservants to prove his virility like her pa would, but an unsteady stomp downstairs found them all sleepin’ their shade-sleep in their beds, quiet as death but not filled with it. Not out with the horses or the dog, not tucked up in their reception salon — and weren’t they damned well to do, to call it a salon and not a god damn family room.

Course it wasn’t like they’d ever have much of a family. And what family they did have, well – her mama didn’t visit, and his mama didn’t even write.

Only one place left to find him and in retrospect, should have been where she started. She left the old castle, stomped down to his new place: Hadestown, his little shanty town project where his mortal mice scattered at his whims. He’d built it to give the place some color for her, some vitality, he said, somethin’ a little more lively and mortal because he'd noticed she liked to dance up top, and he’d sneered at that, too, and she said fine. But what she had meant was fuck you. Fuck him for implying she needed more than him to be happy here, fuck him for implying that if she wasn’t happy here, it was because of the décor and not because the damn main course was lying rotten on their dining room table.

Fuck. Him.  She seethed, let that become a mantra that she repeated back to herself like a damned chorus girl: fuck him, fuck him, fuck him!

For the second time that day, she walked up to the French steps to his office. He updated them every few years; this newest one was certainly very lah-dee-dah. She had a key, of course, because he was fair even if his fairness was cruel; he always shared with her, fifty/fifty, regardless of if she wanted it or not. She was just as culpable in this experiment, even if she did everything in her power to avoid this side of town outside of her little hole in the wall. He didn’t open the door as she popped her key in the lock as he usually did, and she froze half a second. A horrible thought invaded her mind that maybe he’d taken one of his mortal workers to his chair instead of her. She felt such disgust at the idea it overwhelmed her and she pressed her head against the door in a solid thunk. What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t care, and yet: she was certain if he had, she’d kill the mortal and take him down, too, slit his throat with a primal scream. And it would serve her right if she got caught down here perpetually because she’d murdered his ass. He’d enjoy that, probably crack dry little jokes about it as his shade self (because, somehow, she’d married the one god damn asshole where even death couldn’t serve as an end to their marriage) while she would wish she could strangle his dead ass again.

There were no workers inside, though. Nothing but her husband, tired as hell itself, head and arms bent down over some paperwork. He didn’t look up when she came through the door, didn’t look up when she shut the door behind her neither. Didn’t look up at all as she sat in the chair on the other side of his, though he finally noticed her presence, she could tell, because he put the pen nib down for a moment.

 “What?” He hissed. He picked up the pen again, stabbed the ink-well like he was gonna murder it; a bit splashed on his table, and she wiped it up with her sleeve. He frowned. “You gonna come in here and tell me I’m not man enough to keep ya satisfied again?” There was genuine hurt, deep hurt, in those eyes; she reached out a hand and he just stared at it, shook his head.

“No.” She twitched, uncomfortable, in her chair. Maybe it’d been a smidge too far, to poke him over this secret shame. She held out a hand, which he stared at like it was an invading force, come to overthrow the dominion of his table. “No, Hades. I ain’t.”

Silence reigned for a moment. He looked at her, big brown eyes wet as hell, and she thought, take my hand, you idiot.

But his gaze hardened staring at it, and his hands went to the stack of papers on his desk instead.

“Well if there’s another complaint you want to register, you can give it to me at the end of summer. I’m in no hurry for more of your sharp tongue,” he spat, jabbing his files into a fussy, neat little pile.

“Like you ever wait for summer,” she bit back, angered that he’d rather fight than hold her. The fight seemed to go out of him at that; he leaned back in his chair, looking sad and sadder still. “Can’t think of the last time we had one up top.”

Silence reigned another long moment, and this time, he held out his hand. She took it, threaded his big old fingers through hers. Such rough hands on him now, her man; the veins were visible. When had he gone and gotten so damn old and stubborn on her? Seemed to her that if he was gonna get old, he could have at least gotten malleable.

“Don’t seem such a crime to want to spend time with my wife, though she treats it so.” He said it quiet, and there was something vulnerable there, a scrap of his old tenderness for the first time in a damn long time. She got up, walked over to his side of the table and grabbed his head, stroked that old salt-and-pepper brow. He leaned into it with a longing that surprised her, and well, didn’t seem so much a crime to kiss him then. Kiss him and pretend it would be okay. The first kiss they’d had in years, so many years that she’d lost count of them all.

He’d leaned into that too. Hungrier than she would have expected him to be, given how well-fed she was keeping his sexual appetite, but his hands were in her hair in seconds and his tongue was in her mouth within the minute.

“Let me make it up to you now,” she’d muttered, and she’d slid down to her knees to prove he was no gelding at all, never breaking eye contact with him the whole damn time she took him like that. He’d stared at her with raw vulnerability in his eyes, and the look he shot her when she was licking him from her lips was potent enough to freeze the entire world above in permafrost. She drank him down like he was a draught that would heal her broken heart, but all she could taste was the salt rock-tang of his skin and she prayed, fervently, that that was enough.

“Next fall, it’ll be better,” he promised as he pulled her up, some frenzied belief in his eyes that hurt hard enough she wanted to believe. He’d put her on his lap and they’d spent the last few hours of their time like that, kissing and nuzzling and trying to put things back together. He promised her a million promises for next year between rounds of kissing her stupid and fucking her dumb. He promised he wouldn’t work so much. He’d change Hadestown, brighten the place up so it wouldn’t be such a dank hole. He’d get things sorted so they could spend some time together. He’d even go out to dinner with her mama, if only she went up top thinkin’ well of him.   

And she did, that year. Kissed his cheek in March and went down and danced and brought a hot spring-time fever through the world, dancin’ like she couldn’t stop. Didn’t badmouth old man winter too much. And for a couple months, she’d thought, well, maybe that was alright then, that if he were gonna try, well, she’d be willing to listen. Maybe she’d ask mama about that dinner. Maybe he’d turn Hadestown into something tolerable, maybe he wouldn’t be working himself to the bone while studiously avoiding her. Maybe it really would be a new leaf he’d be turnin’ over on her, and for all she held against him she was still willing to try. She loved him almost as much as she hated him, and that was the real rub of it all. She loved him enough to believe he could make this right.  

And then he showed up in May.

Showed up with those stupid sunglasses and that pig-iron smile and he held out his hand and maybe that hand was shaking but she damn well ignored that because she hated him so much in that instant.

“You’re early,” she said, but what she meant was you’re a fucking asshole.

“I missed ya,” he said, and maybe it sounded a little mean, but she knew what he meant was: I missed ya, because Hades always spoke plain. As much art in him as a sandwich. He’d gone mad from missin’ her, again, and she knew he was desperate, and she took six steps toward him and agreed to go down, thinkin’ maybe she could soothe better down there.

She saw his eyes gaze at the damn fool child praying for shelter that wouldn’t come for half a second before going back to her, and at the time, it didn’t register that for the first time in centuries, he’d looked at someone else. She just watched the train hiss, and she thought: You don’t listen.

And then he yelled, and she yelled. Regretful things were said, right regretful; he’d told her he despaired of losing her (again) and she told him nothing he’d spent the last three months doing was even remotely impressive and she’d lost count of all the ways they’d fought, only remembering that they were both metaphorically bleeding by the end of it. He didn’t understand, and she didn’t think she could say it any plainer. It wasn’t right and natural, not them, not this awful place, not his steel-trap mind, not her poison mouth; she just wanted to go back to what they were, go back to that garden. Now if she did, what would she do? She didn’t rightly know. Sometimes she thought if she could time travel back, she’d slap the fruit out of her young hands or slap him maybe. But others, she thought she’d kiss him, hold his head by his silvering temples and pledge herself true. Sometimes, she thought she’d like to kiss him and slap him and shove the fruit in her mouth…or maybe spit it out. Well. It was complicated, her emotions. Just like everything else about them.

She had expected him to do his usual; storm off to Hadestown, work himself half to death while she drank herself well past the point she’d be dead if there were even a scrap of mortality in her bones. That was always the plan when they were pissed. Refill on those creature comforts, then whirl back around to stabbin’ one another with metaphorical knives for the next eight months.

But he didn’t do that this time. He went off script.

“If you don’t want my love, I’ll give it to someone who does,” he hissed; it was the only time he’d ever threatened infidelity and her little ancient heart (for she was younger than him, but not younger than much else) froze itself solid and cracked.

“No,” she muttered, and reached for his arms, to smooth’em down just like he used to when she’d pulled this trick. “No.”

But she didn’t get on her knees, and he just stalked away. She heard the train whistle and sobbed unabashedly.

She sat in his office at first, waiting awkwardly. Then, she got mad; she folded up his papers in different piles and splashed bits of his ink all over that big damn table but found no joy in it. Then, worried sick, she re-folded his papers back the way he had them and scrubbed out the ink with her dress, not caring that it left stains. It was a black dress.

And after all that, he still wasn’t back.

And so, she went home to grieve in self-pity and drank what was left of his booze. She had more secreted away; her little hidey-hole, where she gave the workers some nice creature comforts to get’em through the day and the night. But there was some personal peevishness in drinkin’ what he liked, sipping down an inconvenience for him. And she thought: Hera above, I never thought it would be my marriage would be like this. And maybe she cried a bit, but she wasn’t gonna tell him that when he got home. Wasn’t gonna tell him that, ever.

She wondered if he was goin’ back, grabbin’ that girl who had wondered what it was like, loving a big important man. Wondered how he’d take her the way he’d gotten Persephone, if he’d sweet-talk her like he used to sweet-talk Persephone when she was a young thing or if he’d been a crasser old man, just pay to use her and go. Wondered if he enjoyed it, or worse, enjoyed that little girl more than he’d ever enjoyed her. Started crying loud then.  And since he weren’t around, she didn’t care so much if she looked a bit pathetic. So she started crying louder and uglier still, since at least the sound of that was better than the sound of silence.

And just when she didn’t think she could sink no lower in self-pity, the door opened and there he was, all darkness and despair. He put off his coat, his hat, and she looked at his clothes: unrumpled. Undisturbed. No lipstick on his collar, nothing but the smell of train exhaust and a bit of smoke from some bar or another.

“Fuck you,” she said, for bringing it that close.

“Rather fuck you,” he murmured, voice dark with desire, and she’d let him, then; let him side into her side of the bed and kiss at her neck, and didn’t fight it at all when he pulled her dress up a bit and then a lot and then off entirely. She got him naked with an almost impressive speed, peeling off layers like she could tear off all the bad years. He took himself home from behind, and she might have even said please or yes, something like that, some useless affirmative; so, so pleased he’d come home to her that she sobbed for him openly. His big hands brushed her tears away and wrapped tight around her chest and she took that as his best attempt at an apology. What they wound up doing wasn’t quite making love but wasn’t quite fuckin’ neither, and he didn’t pull away from her at the end. They slept there like that, him half-buried inside her as long as he could manage, his arms holding so tight to her she didn’t really believe he’d want anyone else. They didn’t talk again but she’d thought it resolved well enough, or as resolved as they got anymore.

They didn’t discuss it again after. By morning, he was back to being the boss, and she was back to doin' the best she could. 

The script resumed for a few days: she sold the boss’ liquor and mama’s moonshine into waiting hands and drank herself half-blind to hide what was wrong with them, and he worked and worked and worked until his hands bled and then he just went right on workin’. And at night they fell into the same bed, but just barely; they had their own corners, their own blankets. Sometimes he’d reach to pet her and sometimes she’d let him. Once in a while, she reached out when he was asleep and smoothed down his weary brow.

And then the girl showed up.

She knew her, more from Hermes chatter about fixin’ her up with the bar-boy than anything else. Showed up with nothing but blind belief in her eyes and Hades' coins in her hands and she knew, she knew, then, that he’d been playing the long game.

And he’d made her a fool right there on the factory floor, oh yes; all those years she taunted him and what was the first thing he did? Smoothed her arm down, just like he did all those years ago. Except instead of sayin’ no, this time, he was sayin’ yes — and not to her.

She almost went up there. Almost killed him, almost signed the girl’s contract in her own damn blood.

But in the end, she didn’t. She grabbed Hermes’ hand like a coward, and let him ply her with the drink and the sweet words, let herself sing about bein’ a good wife even if she weren’t, about being a source of life even down here where she was just dead, dead, dead.  Her man was the King of Diamonds so suppose that made her the Queen of Spades in this game of Hearts they were playin’. She was a 13-point queen and had hearts bleedin’ from her like a stuck pig, but he’d tossed his last card down on a five of hearts and there was no way they were gonna shoot the moon from down here anymore. “Aint that the luck,” she babbled to Hermes, pissed off her ass. “Become Queen of Spades in this game and he decides he’d rather have a…” she squinted at her memory of the girl, fuzzy at the end of the whiskey bottle. “A five!”

“That’s sure the luck, sister,” he said, with sympathetic eyes, and patted her arm. She shoved it off, motioned for him to top up her drink, which he did. Always a good brother, Hermes. He had got it figured out, she thought; just a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Not married at all, her brother; never did. She should have followed his example. Shoulda never listened to Hades all those years ago, when he was crooning her name in a thousand little love songs into her shoulder. He’d cast a long shadow then. She. Could still hear his opening pitch, still just the thought made her quiver even with her heart broken in a thousand shades: such a cold chill just runs all over me when I look at you, girl; you must be a queen. Then he’d gone and made her one. Fools, fools, both of them.

Maybe it was mercy his interest in her was goin’; maybe he’d let her stay up top the proper amount of time, let the girl warm his bed instead, and the thought of that made her nearly bring up the liquor, but she was a logical beast deep down. Shoulda been happy about that, she supposed, except she wasn’t. She was the exact opposite of that.

“I should kill’em.” She told Hermes. “Should just kill him. At least, chop off his old hands. Maybe some other extremities, too.”

“Don’t think you need to go that far, sister girl. You'd miss those extremities sooner or later.” Hermes clinked his glass against hers. “Besides, a lot can happen behind closed doors and a lot might not happen, too. He might surprise you.”

“He ain’t never surprised me in any way but bad.” She watched the girl come down the stairs, skittish as a cat. Watched Hades’ canary singsong about how she’d signed a contract and how afraid she was of her brave new world, and felt a little kernel of pity in her heart for the kid, even if most of her still wanted to throw her into the fires of Hades’ own forges.

As far as him, they avoided one another real good after that; she figured out that he’d made that girl a worker bee and hadn’t quite replaced the queen in his hive as he had threatened, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t feel anything other than complicated about him, and he knew he was in deep shit with her. He kept away, didn’t come round until she was asleep and he was just about always gone before morning. Sometimes she saw signs he’d been there; his readin’ glasses moved on the side-table, his neatly folded clothing in the bureau suddenly absent. She wasn’t sure why he didn’t bother to just go ahead and move out, weren’t like they were so few beds in this place that he had to sleep by her side. But then, he was probably wondering the same about her. They were ghosts, guiltily avoidin’ one another like some comically polite Victorian novel.

Except none of it were the least bit funny.

They were hopeless, hopeless, she thought. He couldn’t even let her go without messing it up, and she couldn’t even try to cut him out, though he was sure trying to make it as easy as he could. Wasn’t even there to argue with, and she never thought she’d miss the arguing.

The worst part came in the evening-to-morning hours, when she’d wake up whenever the room was splashed by light from his horrible cathode rays. Sometimes she felt his weight press down on the bed. Sometimes she heard the soft snuffling of what might be his own tears on his own damn pillow. Sometimes she heard his body shift to hold hers out of habit, only to withdraw once he realized what he was doing. She was always too paralyzed to turn over; whether it was fear or anger or cowardice that stayed her hand, she could not say. Nothing about them was anything but complicated anymore. She just listened to him cry himself to sleep with tears he’d never admit to.

And her, well, she saved her tears for mornings when he was gone to some factory or mill or another. That was the beautiful thing about whiskey, she thought; it watered down nice, and her crying into it didn’t hurt the taste much at all. 

But just when she was damn close to givin’ up, then there came the boy scuttling down the rocks and wires to reclaim the little thing that her husband had lured down and cast aside. Those kids had a love like she used to have once, the kind of love that broke through bricks and iron and even…even her steely husband.

The rest of the story flew by too fast to process.

The kid wrote their love out in aching detail – and then Hades was singing along. He’d always loved her, Hades said, in so many halting and stuttering words, vulnerable for the first time in forever and moving in sync with her over and over again. It was always her, he said, and he’d been sorry and she’d been sorry too, and when he drew a damn red carnation between those ancient fingertips she all but burst into happy tears because she knew there was no faking that, no faking a bit of divine life coming from the fingertips of the lord of dead men.

He loved her. Still. Loved her and gave her his flower and let an early winter come to just a late spring frost. She promised him her love in so many words and the great man's great wall came crashing down; he gave up his control and he let the kids go and let her go, too, said they’d try again in the fall and she believed him, she believed him more than she’s ever believed him or anyone else before.

 It wasn’t 'til she was all the way up top that her doubt started to trickle in, the hows and the what-ifs ramping up in her mind. Her doubt slammed into her full force when she gets told the young ones didn’t make it, because Hermes, gossip that he is, can’t keep that a damn secret at all.

“Real tragedy,” he said, but what she thought was, oh Gods, how can we make it if they didn’t?

“Don’t you worry though,” Hermes saw her alarm, clasped her hand in his. He misunderstood, she knew from the smile on his face. “He already sent the girl on her way. That’s the thing with fives, never do stay in the hand long. She’s already off on her next life’s adventure, or, well, will be in a few months.” He mimed a pregnant lady and chuckled, but Persephone just sunk deeper into her bourbon.

“Poor thing,” she said, but what she really wondered was the same thought that had been going through her mind for the last ten minutes – if they didn’t make it, how can we?  They were a damn hell less complicated, that little pair of fives. What chance could a king of diamonds and a queen of spades have if a pair of fives couldn’t make it through?

His silence doesn’t make her anxieties rest any easier. She held her breath through the brief rest of May, but he kept his side of things cold. Silent as the tomb, her man. He didn’t send any letters and Hermes didn’t even pass along a hello. “What’s he doin' down there?” she asked one morning, buried in a cup that was orange juice and only a bit of vodka for courage.

“Not much.” Hermes shrugged and she resisted the urge to punch him, but only barely. “Same as ever in the off-season, sister. Workin' and waitin'.”

She prepared her things for him to come in June, had her things all nicely packed right down to her silky drawers. But the train didn’t bellow anywhere close to her, and the tug of desire in her gut went unanswered. Maybe he was trying to please her at long last. Maybe he was avoiding her, too. It was, as always, hard to tell with her old man.

And so June passed, full of nothing so much as the itch for…she didn’t know what. To scratch up his back with her nails? To snarl into his throat? To kiss him madly and let him put her down in the sugarcane? All of the above? She didn’t know, just knew she itched for him and resented it and loved it and hated it and missed it all the same. All she knew is she wanted something to happen with him. Didn’t matter what.

She wrote him a letter for the first time in centuries, something short and sweet, in hopes of slaking her thirst. I miss ya – P. Weren’t any great poetry, that, but Persephone was never a great wordsmith and things had been so complicated for so long that she figured short and sweet was best. Handed it to Hermes and expected at least a letter within the week. She told him to wait until autumn and here it was, summer, and she’d heard the whistle bellow high so long before summer’s end that she didn’t know what to do anymore with his silence.

“You’re playin’ with fire, taunting that man like this,” mama said, and she’d snapped back an insult right back at her mother, like she would with Hades. Mama just gave her one of her sad little smiles in response. “I know how it is, girl. You ain’t think I’ve been in love? I have been in love. I know I didn’t raise you to be a fool and you know as much as I do you’re your man will see your letter as an inch and grab himself a mile.”

Mama looked at her in a way that couldn’t be described as anything but pity, and Persephone stormed out, not willin’ to stay in a house full of sadness in the summertime. The old clapboard house felt downright cloying consumed with it and she had enough of sadness downstairs in her big empty castle. Instead, Persephone did what she did best and ran away, ringing in July sipping whiskey and water with her favorite brother out at his bar.

“How’s he doin'?” She asked. She looked for Orpheus, didn’t find him. Supposed that weren't that surprising. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the boy since, well..since.

“Sister, which he? Now if you mean Orpheus, he ain’t comin’ back here. You know how their kind is with their failures,” he said, quiet so he was not overheard, and then spread out his arms in a shrug. “Had to hire a new man.  Robert's handing out the wine now.” He gestured to a new man, same age and same musical fingers, who smiled at them with glittering white teeth from the bar. Oh Hermes, he always did a soft spot for the pretty musicians. “Or if you mean your old man winter? He’s all the same, though your little letter. Phew. What was in that? He read that and had a look so hot I thought the paper might combust. Thought my drawers might combust at that look…And your old man’s never been my type. Think I’ll come to you instead of Paulie next time I need a little love hymn.”

“What did he say in response?” She bit her lip. Hermes wasn’t carrying anything in his hands, so if he had a message, it was in his mind and nowhere else.

“Nothing. Just tucked it up in his breast pocket and went back to his figures with big old pink ears. Look, sister-girl.” Hermes smoothed her hair back with a soft and pitying smile. “Ain’t you figured out who you married yet? He’s a man of few words and big actions.”

“Well he ain’t doing much actin' at all is the problem,” she growled and Hermes shook his head.

“You want me to tell your old man you say to pick you up?” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Or…If you wanna deliver another love note and end it with PS – I’m Ready, he’ll probably grab ya and have ya in the dirt before I’ve even got boots back aboveground. And I mean have ya in more than one sense, you know.” He needled her in the ribs with his elbow, waiving his eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes. “Ain’t that. I don’t want to go back yet. I just want…I don’t know, just wish I knew a damn thing about what that asshole was thinking right now.” The thought occurred that this was probably how he felt when she’d burned his letters and she didn’t much like the guilt that licked at her cheeks.

Hermes laughed. “Sister, if you don’t know that old bastard’s mind, who would? You’re the only one who ever wanted to mine in those hills, only you know where the ore is.”

She said nothing, just glared, furious. The problem was she didn’t know how to find the gold anymore; everything they'd been pulling up with bleeding fingers the last few years was clay. Hermes didn’t get that, but he got she was rightly pissed, cause he put his hand on her shoulder and gave her an I’m gonna level with ya look.

“You want my advice? Talk to him. Tell him what you want. See where it goes from there. That’s all it is in the end, sister. You just gotta communicate.”

“How would you know?” She sipped down the last of her whiskey and hopped off the stool. Hermes made it sound so simple when it was anything but. “You ain’t never been married.”

“And how do you think I stay that way, sister?” He said with a smile. “Humor me. If I’m wrong, I’ll eat crow and you can brag about it for years to come. If I’m right, I won’t brag about it at all. While you’re in earshot, anyway.”

She put her glass down and rolled her eyes. It was time to go home to mama, and with luck, mama would be right asleep by the time she got there.

“Goodnight Hermes.” She nodded toward the barkeep and he shot her a smile full of starlight.

 She paused at the door. “Night, Robert.”

“Night, night,” he crooned, smooth as silk, and she thought: This one is a charmer. She didn’t think about him any more than that; her thoughts focused on another man as she slipped out the door and walked back to mama’s.

About halfway there, soon as she could be sure Hermes couldn’t see her, she found herself a crossroad and sat in the middle of the dirt road. That was the nice thing about mama livin’ in the county; not a lot of witnesses when one wanted to embrace death. There probably wouldn’t be another car come down this way 'til morning.

Feeling like a total moron, she put her hand in the dirt and closed her eyes. She tapped at the ground twice and tried to imagine him. What was he at this hour? He generally made the attempt to keep her hours but as with everything else, it felt like all the rules were thrown out, and she had no idea what to expect of him anymore. She tried to think of what he’d do if she was back in the underworld. He’d be sitting in bed, sipping his whiskey and reading his financial papers, the pen in his mouth as she would shift into bed next to him. That was her old, old man, she thought with a smile. She tapped the ground again and imagined he was looking toward her now. He’d always focused on her prayers when she was a young thing but who knew if that was still true. She blushed and felt like a fool, but buried her hand in the ground and yanked her thoughts toward her man. Hello. Hi. Are you listening?

There was nothing and she frowned, buried her hand deeper. She was a god and god’s prayers tended to be damn loud to other gods, even if he wasn’t looking her way in particular. It was quiet out there, quiet as a tomb. Hello?

Why wasn’t he answerin'? She closed her eyes, because if she didn’t, she’d damn well cry, and pressed her palm as deep in as she could and thought as loud as she could. If he didn’t answer this one well — supposed that was her answer right there. Please talk to me. I don’t care how. Not that he had a lot of choices, whatever form he borrowed would have to be pretty limited – wasn’t like he could tunnel through the earth and pop up to chit chat like a little daisy.

A rattlesnake rattled in the distance and she hoped, desperately, that that sound was a sign. She watched one part its way through the cornfields and move toward her, stopping at the edge of the road. Big snake; a couple of feet at least. Unusual they got back that big out here, so she damn well hoped it was a sign.

“Oh,” she whispered; it stuck its tongue out, taking the temperature. She felt her heart all but drum as the snake inched its way toward her. She pulled her hand out of the dirt and sat down in the dirt road.

She held out her hand toward it.

“Hi.” If it was his animal, it’d stop at her feet. It didn’t move from its space on the side of the road, just measuring the air with its damn little tongue. She felt tears dot her eyes, because if it wasn’t him then she was making a fool of herself in front of a random snake for no damn reason, and he’d probably see it and laugh. Or worse, have sent it to just tease her. It flickered toward her hand slowly and hesitantly and she dared to hope.

“Please,” she murmured. “I want ya to come here. It’s alright, really.”

With great caution, the snake curled itself around her hand. It squeezed itself into a circle at her wrist and she sighed in relief. “Hi,” she said. “Thanks.”

The snake wound over her hand, curling like it didn’t know quite how to move with her. It eventually coiled into a large ball, all awkward.  It’d been a while since she’d seen him this way; she smiled sadly at the black brick-band on the snake’s back; even here, there was no escape from the bricks of Hadestown on him.

Hades’ snake gently flexed on her wrist but the reptile gave nothing away of how he felt. She stared at him for a long moment, and his snakey head just stared right the fuck back. She sighed. Guess it was up to her to start things, wasn’t like this form could talk much, but she didn’t even know what to say. Well, Hermes had said to tell the truth and she supposed if she’d taken his advice this far…In for a penny, in for a pound, as they said.

“Lover, I miss you.” He slithered toward her shoulder, clearly pleased, and she shook her head. He stopped. “And…I’m real turned around right now. You been burying me early so long I don’t know what to do here anymore in the summertime but miss you.”  The snake carefully shuffled up her shoulder and wound itself around her neck in what she thought was meant to be affection, but may well have been guilt.

She held out her free hand toward the snake’s head, ignored that her hand was shaking. Slowly, incredibly slowly, she touched its beaded head and felt it tense, then all but lean into her, wrapping its head back around her finger in a tight hold. Oh, lover, she thought. When did things get so bad? Now we can’t even touch without one of us being worried the other'll bite.

“We’re both all mixed up, ain't we?” She said with a soft sigh. The snake looked at her and flickered its tongue over her fingers; she suspected that was agreement. “I don’t know what I want with us,” she admitted. “But I know I don’t want to fight like last year again.”

The creature stuck its head up, nodded, then nuzzled its head against her palm. What he was trying to communicate was obvious. “I know you’re sorry. I am too. But…that girl hurt me bad. Please don’t ever do that to me again.”

It laid itself flat as it could on her fingers, leaving only its head moving up and down in an almost comically stiff nod. That stiffness was clearly more Hades than snake; amazing how much his personality bled through, even when he was just borrowing something else’s form.

“I won’t threaten you no more, either. If there’s one thing I can say, it’s having it done to you just proves how mean it is, and I'm sorry for all those years I told ya I’d go find somebody else. Truth is I never wanted’ta.”

The snake sunk its head down to her palm and flickered its tongue against it, eyes closed. She closed her hands over the snake’s head and felt him freeze – oh, gods above, why was it always like this? She closed her eyes and pressed a quick kiss to the snake’s head, then put him on her shoulder. “It’s always been you, lover. Even when it’s been bad. That’s the truth.”  

It wiggled back around her neck, touching its big head against her neck, the tongue flickering out in obvious affection; she rubbed his cheek with her fingers and enjoyed the silent camaraderie for a long moment. Damn Hermes all down to Tartarus, she did feel a bit better for having taken his advice. She wished Hades was really here, but that was a long train ride away and truth was, she wasn’t sure she could handle a full conversation where he could talk back to her.

“Did you like my note?” she asked; the snake moved quickly, wringing itself through her hair, twisting at it. “Hey, that hurts!”

The snake dropped and swung back around her neck to look at her with what she suspected was its best attempt at looking nonplussed. “Well, it does. Sorry if you like crawlin’ through my hair, but it feels a lot better with your actual fingers, baby.”

With a hiss of air that felt almost like he was sighing in her ear, the snake carefully wrapped itself back around her neck instead and butted its head repeatedly against hers. “Aw,” she said, smiling. It was an odd mix of snake instincts and his own in his borrowed form, and she remembered enough of this gesture to know he was miming courtship for her. She pressed her head against the snake’s head gently. “Yeah, yeah, you’re my mate, and I’m yours. I know. I don’t want that to change, either. I just don’t remember how we do this right anymore.”

She swore to the gods above his head actually fucking drooped, pulling away from her with the eyes flickering down. “I do wanna try, and I think you do, too, or you wouldn’t be here.”  He curled around her neck and squeezed gently, just close enough to a hug. She smiled sadly. “So...how do we make this work, lover?”

Hades unwrapped his snake form from around her neck whip-fast, turning on her shoulder til his head was hissin’ and his tail was vibrating. She stared oddly at the display, unsure of what he meant until she heard the step of another person behind her, and she turned and stood.  

“Well, if it ain’t the pretty gal from the bar.” Hermes’ newest little musician chuckled quickly. “Sitting in a crossroads at moonlight with a rattlesnake. You’re an odd lady.”

“You have no idea,” she said; Hades' rattle beat louder and she didn’t need to glance at his snake to know he was glaring hatefully at the intrusion. She tapped his head in gentle warning; I can take care of myself. Besides, judging how Hermes’ new musician was looking at her, he probably didn’t mean to harm her any. The look was more curious than randy.

“You shouldn’t be out late at night by your lonesome. Never know when a snake’s gonna bite, and that one don’t look too friendly.” Hades rose up and she put a hand on his tail, silencing the rattle. He shot her a look.

“You don’t worry, I can take care of myself. “ A handy statement that, one that worked well for both of the men in her way. “Why you out this far in the countryside, barman Robert? Figured you’d be stayin’ in town.” Orpheus had, she knew. Generally, Hermes helped all his charges find a little place near to his café, preferably one he could get some good gossip from second-hand.

“Oh, I thought I’d try my luck with some of the farmhouses. It’s what I do when I come to a new place, try to find a nice home to work in when buskin’ runs low.” He smiled, but it was not, Persephone thought, very kind. “You know how it is, sister. Our kind tends to look after their own.”

“Our kind?” She bristled and squinted at him; the inflection to the word made her think he meant more than just the color of her skin or the drawl of her accent. Hades gummed gently at her finger, a clear question as to whether she wanted him to come up. She shook her head slightly.

“That snake seems awful tame for a rattler who was rattlin’ just a moment ago. You some kind of snake charmer?”  She noted that he avoided her question; noted too that he followed just a half-step behind her. And she turned to look at him fully. He cracked a big grin. “Or are you one of them girls who got devilment all on your mind so much Satan got you a minder to keep an eye on ya?”

“Don’t recall I asked what you thought of my snake, friend.” She tried to smile. “You don’t worry about him, he’s a good one.” She stroked the snake’s back and swore Hades gave him a look that was almost smug for a snake. Lord father above, was he jealous? He was. He was jealous.

“Well, you know.” He glanced over her and she could all but feel Hades seething through her palm and felt right annoyed at his envy. Wasn’t like the barman was even looking at her like that, and even if he were, she’d promised not five minutes ago that she was going to be true blue. Didn’t he trust her to stick with it? “Ain’t too many folks with our kind of look who go out in the crossroads to…chat. Let alone chat with a little snake.”

“Maybe not,” she said. She wondered if it was possible she could shake him before hitting mama’s; mama didn’t tend to like strangers knowing where she lived, not after Hades’ had run off with her little girl with nothing more than a few words at a party. “You probably should try goin’ right at the next one. Lots of farmhouses that way. Everything else out here is pretty sparse. Though I don’t know how many people you’ll find awake in the midnight hour.”

She did not mention that she’d be turnin’ left. Hades’ tongue fluttered against her cheek — he’d climbed back up to her neck again — and she debated tellin’ him to scram, but knew doing that would just make him feel even more impotent in this situation. He’d definitively be runnin’ the train if she did that.

“Noted well, though what I’m lookin’ for isn’t just the farmhouses.” He glanced at her and the snake, his look just a touch too sharp for her liking. “I like walkin’ through the crossroads. Always feel a power there, makes me shiver and shake. Ain’t you feel that too, sister? You look like you might be a believer in magic like me.”

She laughed. “You really believe in that sort of thing? Magic?”

“Oh yes.” He pulled a hand back and pulled out something heavy and glinting from his side-back — his guitar. It was quite a bit different from Orpheus’; black lacquer, golden strings. “I got this from the big man in the crossroads a couple of years ago, and I been playin’ my songs for him ever since and hopin’ I’ll see him again.”

“The big man?” She raised an eyebrow and looked down at Hades. Weren’t too many gods who involved themselves with humans, much less brokered deals.

“Oh yes, the Devil himself.” Hades’ tongue flickered at her neck and she looked at him. He slowly waved the snakes head back and forth — not one of his then. Certainly not one of hers, either. “Reckon you’re one of his, too, and Hermes.”

She stopped cold in the street at that. Identifying two of the gods in one swipe? That was a bit of a coincidence and Persephone wasn’t sure she cared for it. “I think you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, mister,” she said. Wrong pantheon, anyway.

“Oh come on.” He strummed a few notes on his guitar and she had to admit, he played well. “You’re a woman, sittin’ in the crossroad at midnight, kissin’ snakes, and you gonna tell me you ain’t danced with the devil?”

“The devil don’t exist.” She stomped on ahead. “Your God doesn’t either.”

“Oh, I ain’t never dared to believe in a benevolent deity. Figure even God’s just lookin’ out for himself. But that man in the crossroad — he sparked somethin’ in me. Somethin’ I never knew. A talent, you might say. Said he was the big man, and that he had people all over the place that he gifted his talents to. Now mine happens to be a song, but others got other talents, too. Now Hermes says nobody grows nothin’ finer than you and your ma, and I been on the road a long time, lady. I get a good read on people. And ain’t no little lady in the south sitting in a crossroad in the dark if she ain’t got some devil song in her.”

She just smiled; Hades continued to keep sentry over her shoulder. They walked in silence for a moment, then Robert stopped. “I’m sorry. I’m makin’ you right uncomfortable and I see that. I don’t want to do that. Just not often I see someone who I think might have…that spark, you know?” He lit a cigarette, puffed out a cloud of smoke barely visible in the dark. Clove cigarettes, she thought; she could smell it in the dark. “Travel the whole US of A and the only people I’ve ever seen who share it are just you and Hermes. And the big man in the road, of course, but uh — I don’t count him as a local, if you know  what I mean.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. It’s just been a long day,” she said, shaking her head. “And I’m sorry, but I’m not what you want me to be.”

“I ain’t certain you aren’t what I think you are,” he grinned. “Like I said, I’m good at reading people. And everything about you just screams…” He shook his head. “Well. Not like you a bad lady, but I smell magic on you. Feels like you got a lot of life in ya, and a lot of death, too.”

Oh boy, ain’t that truer than you know. Hades curled tighter over her shoulders like he could press a claim to her, and she snorted. “Ain’t like people don’t know their tragedies down here, brother. Everybody is mixed up in a little death and a little life, too. Sharecropper’s life, you know?”

Brother – she paused. That felt like more than just a figure of speech. She cocked an eyebrow and studied him close; he was nothing special, mostly mortal but — Oh. That nose definitively looked like her father’s, and the mouth was plenty close to dad’s, too. Was he one of dad’s? Certainly possible. Certainly got around, though he ain’t been around this way in a long time. She wondered. “What’s your story, brother Rob? Since you seem to have read so much of mine.”

“Not much to tell. My pa ran off early. Never met him, never saw hide nor hair, but ma said he rumbled like thunder and danced like lightning.” Hades’ snake emitted a sigh in her ear that told her he’d surmised as much as she had, that dad had unleashed a new baby brother on some poor mortal girl and fucked off, as was his way. “Bounced around between my mom and some of her relatives, we did the best we could. Took to the roads soon after I turned eighteen. Married twice, but…” He sighed. “Never does seem to quite work out, when you’re a travelin’ man. Both them girls went to their graves young.”

“I’m sorry.” She’d probably met them, may have even apportioned their fates; she tried to access the memories she’d seen for his face, to estimate him as a threat, but found nothing.  Maybe they were summer deaths, and she wouldn’t know. Hades’ snake at her neck tensed but otherwise did nothing; presumably, if he’d found the collective memory of those girls, he’d also found that ol’ Robert hadn’t been responsible for their deaths. No way he’d keep quiet about that, not if he thought Persephone was in danger. Barely was keepin’ his silence as it was. She wrapped a hand around his tail and felt his snake twitch against her shoulder, but what that meant, she couldn’t tell. Hoped it was good.

“Don’t be, don’t be.” He smiled, and it was a bit of a dad-type smile, all brilliant but stormy, the type of smile a man could make that could make you relieved and make you nervous all at the same time. “Just told me where my place was, out here on the road. Someday we’ll meet again in that big old place in the ground. Ain’t gonna matter where they bury me, you know, they’ll root it out. Women are good at that — no offense, no offense.”

They’d come to another crossroads and stopped there. To her relief, the new bar-man moved toward the right and grinned at her. “How far do I gotta go til I hit a helpful house this way, pretty lady?”

Hades’ head swiveled toward him at the compliment and she bit back the urge to shove him down onto the ground. Such a jealous man. “Couple houses, maybe. Old man Richards always takes in strangers, and the Beauchamps never turn down help for their barn if they can have it. You go more than half a mile, you’d be better off goin’ back to town and begging Hermes. He’s a softy, deep down.”

“Ah, I thought of that, but old man Hermes said he’s got some messages to deliver tonight. Very urgent.” He shook his head. “Said his other job is right demanding. You work with him in that, sister?”

Once again, the look seemed to be takin’ the measure of her, and she thought: this one has dad’s nose, and dad’s cleverness, too. She shook her head and smiled. “I got two jobs, don’t need three.” Never had a temperament to be daddy’s messenger, anyway. “Have a good night, Robert.”

“Goodnight,” he said, doffin’ his cap. She nodded and watched him go down the path, not turning to follow the path to mama’s ‘til he was beyond her sightline. Nothing against the barman, but mama would want to know of him before he was sniffin’ around her property for a third god. Hades curled lethargically around her shoulders, and she realized he’d been channeling a long time. Took a lot of effort to maintain control over an animal, and he’d been doing it for at least an hour straight, maybe closer to two at this point.

“You want me to let you go?” She asked; he tightened around her in response. Take that as a no. “Well, suppose you can walk me home. Or walk me home as much as you can without any legs.” Probably was the only thing she could do to actually reassure him; this was the closest thing to instant communication they had when they were split. Anything else would take, at minimum, hours. Hades butted up against her head again, tongue flickering lazily in genuine affection.

“Don’t overdo it, you know. And for that matter, if you’re just sticking around because of that guy, you ain’t gotta be jealous. That one’s cute but he ain’t my type. You know I like my men like I like my wine, old as hell and just a little bitter.” She laughed, but the snake just curled against her neck. She wasn’t sure if that was tiredness or sadness; maybe both. She caressed his scales and felt the whole thing shudder. “Sides, I meant what I promised. You gotta trust me on that.”

She saw mama’s home come into focus, the wheat gently blowing in the breeze and moved toward it in a swift walk.  Couldn’t run – he’d get offended at that – but she knew he was tiring out fast. Sides, she still didn’t know a damn answer to the question she asked, and it wasn’t like he could really give her one here.  She bounced up through the path up the house – didn’t run through the crops, wouldn’t with him on her shoulders – and soon enough the old clapboard house was there, and she burst into a wide grin.

“Thanks, you know. For the company.” She pulled him off her shoulders with only mild protest as she rounded the steps; she sat out front and carefully dipped him down back into the dirt. The light was still on out on the porch, which meant mama was still up. 

 “I’m right sorry our conversation got interrupted.” She pet his scales with a finger. “You’d think after an hour of listenin’ to some bard chit-chatting, I’d have been inspired with an idea on how to fix things, but I don’t have anything just yet. I just want…Well, I wanna talk more. Can you send me somethin’? Maybe we can…” She bit her lip. “Well…I ain’t ready to come back yet but…I’m ready to see if we can figure it out. How we do this. Us. Whatever. We gotta find a way not to disembowel one another every damn winter, baby. I’m tired of the fightin’.”

The little snake bobbed its head, the motion jerkier than the smooth nod he’d forced the thing into earlier. He was really starting to slip; half-asleep, she thought.  “You better go, lover; you’re slipping and truthfully I ain’t far behind. Send me a letter. We’ll talk more soon, okay?”

For the last time, it curled around her finger, squeezed. Then it dropped low, and she stood and watched as it shuddered, losing the god consciousness clinging to it. The snake scuttled into the grass, and Persephone went inside the house.

“You’re a bit late,” mama said, lookin’ up from her farmer’s almanac.

“Got delayed by a new charity case of Hermes. One of dad’s, I think. Definitively got a bit of our blood in him from somewhere.”

“Skies above and earth below, your daddy just don’t know how to keep it put away.” Mama shook her head for a moment, a moment of silence for her damn fool of a father. Persephone said nothing, and eventually mama looked past her, one eyebrow raised. “You gonna invite your hubby in? Or just leave him out by the step so I can trip over him in the morning?” Definitively had been listening in then, mama. She sighed. Persephone loved mamma but sometimes she could be just as big a snoop as Hermes. 

“He’s gone,” she said. “Sent him home.”

“And he went?” Mama laughed. “Well. Guess a snake can change the color of its skin after all.”

“You know, you don’t have to listen in.” She walked over to mama, kissed her forehead. “I’m a big girl, can take care of myself with Hades and anyone else for that matter.”

“I wasn’t listening in on purpose. But daughter, as I told you, I been in love. I know that tone of your voice, and you don’t use it with anyone but that man. Didn’t hear him though —and he’s hard to miss.” She raised an eyebrow.  “You gag him?”

“Nah. He just…listened.” She looked at mama and gathered her courage. The thought occurred to her, well, if mama was willing to invite him in to say goodnight, she might be willing to allow him in for more. He and mama had never really gotten along, per se, but...If she was finally willing to let him in the house, then maybe...Persephone shucked in her teeth and looked mama nature in the eyes. “Would you consider lettin’ him in, mama? If I wanted him to visit overnight? Maybe a couple of days?”

“Can’t believe it took you this long to ask.” Demeter snorted. “It’s your house too, child. You want him to come, he can come, that’s just fine so long as he behaves himself. You just let me know when, though, so I can either get out of dodge or buy myself some earplugs.”

“Why…?” Persephone paused, realized just what mama was implyin’,  and felt her blood rush to her cheeks. “Mama!”

Mama just tossed her head back and laughed. “Oh, girl. Like I said, I been in love. And I doubt he’s any quieter than his brothers at that. Man’s as subtle as the bricks he tattooed on his damn self. You want your mama to skedaddle right quick, you just tell me…” She hesitated a second, flicked to a random page in the almanac. “Cabbages. You say ‘Mama, you gotta tend the cabbages,’ and mama’ll find somewhere else to be right quick.”  

Persephone almost told her mama that she was wrong, that he was always been too damn quiet, even in that, but there were still some things that a girl couldn’t tell her mother, even if she had been a married woman for over fifteen thousand years. She sat in the rocking chair opposite mama and put her hands on the armrests. If mama noticed the tension in her, she didn't comment on it. 

“You gettin’ back together with that man, then?” Mama said, careful; she licked her finger and flipped a page in her almanac, burying her eyes in it like the annual rainfall tables were the most amazing things she’d ever seen.

“I think so. I want to.” She sighed. “I know you think — “

“Don’t matter what I think. Never has.” Mama folded over the page and looked up at her. “You wanna get back together with him, you do so. You’re an adult now, you make your own decisions. I yelled for years and it ain’t made a scrap of difference.” Persephone caught a hint of an expression she knew better on Hades' face ghost across mama’s: eyes down, thin frown, regret. “Truth told, maybe I made it worse between you two voicin’ my concerns. I’ll support you, honey. Whatever you want. You want him, you get him. Him and me ain’t never gonna be friends but…we ain’t gotta be enemies. He wants us to lay down arms, I’ll lay mine down. He wants to put his dukes up, well, your mama got a mean right hook. Either way, baby, you set the tempo and mama'll follow it.”

“I don’t know what I want, mama.” She sounded like a little girl and that thought burned in her gullet, that thought that no matter how damn old she was — and she was plenty old — she didn’t sound much more than like a scared little girl when she was talking about issues this big. “I know he’s a part of it but more than that? I just don’t know.”

“You got time to figure it out, child.” She tapped her daughter's hand. “You ain’t six feet underground just yet. Long as he keeps that promise, you got time.”

But that, of course, had been the one promise Hades had never been very good about keeping. 

She went to bed that night thinking of how to fix them, but she didn't find anything to cling to. She woke up tired, and poured herself into her work instead. Easier to do that and just think of him fondly than actually figure anything out, because the problem they had was the problem they’d always had in the end. Now she’d felt his love for her and she didn’t doubt it, not after that boy and that flower, but they'd been at a crossroads a long time and she couldn’t see down any track far enough to know if it wasn’t just circling back to that awful point.

She didn’t figure anything else either, all through the rest of July and then it was August and August passed too fast. Persephone was tired and she kept her focus on bringin’ harvest time for a whole month; her and Hades’ seasonal arguments had left the earth below a might bit damaged and repairing that wasn't so easy. And truth be told, she didn’t think of him too often, or at least not overly so; the work was hard, but fixing her and him was harder. She didn’t have room in herself, for a month or so, to give him her time. Her job just filled her up.

Wasn’t until the middle of a sweltering September that she finally had time to take a break from bringing the harvest to visit Hermes and his little hole in the wall.

“Well if it ain’t miss Persephone,” Robert said when she walked in. “Was afraid I scared you with my midnight talkin'.” He slid a sarsaparilla across the bar in apology and Persephone took it. He'd brightened up some; looked happier than he had that night in the crossroads. 

“Just busy, just busy.” She held her arms open to Hermes, who just smiled at her and shook his head. He, on the other hand, looked tired, she noted with some alarm. His winged arms were practically drooping, and his eyes, well, he looked like he'd been packing for a few days and stored most of the luggage underneath his bright brown eyes. 

“Finally, sister girl. I was gonna head out your way if you didn’t show up soon. Your old man been driving me nuts.” He hauled a huge folder out from behind his counter; it landed with a loud thwap as he slid it over to her. Black manila envelope, ain’t no need to guess who sent that, she thought. “Every damn day he been calling for me. She open it yet? What she sayin?” He glared toward her and Robert and huffed, exasperated. “And her husband, you know, Robert, that’s long distance.”

Hermes, she thought, might have told Robert a bit more of his daddy's origins, for Robert didn't ask exactly how her husband could be long-distance yet still close enough Hermes could travel between him and home every day. It would make sense if Hermes had told him; barman Robert seemed to be sitting a little bit easier in his skin. She wondered if maybe that was what Hermes had learned from Orpheus; if maybe breakin' in the expectations that came with demi-godhood was a mercy he was now providing, rather than just letting them think they were mostly human with a tiny bit of something extra. Would Orpheus have fallen if he'd known he was the grandson of the big man himself? Impossible to know. 

“Sorry, Hermes.” She bit her lip, lightly tracing her fingers over the seal embossed on the back; golden coin, a bright flower in the middle with a snake curled around. Personal seal, not public. Well, she’d asked him for a letter. Seemed like he’d delivered – and a big letter at that.

“I just hope its good news sister.” Hermes tapped her shoulder and left her be, which was shocking because Hermes of all people was generally all up in other people’s business. She broke the seal and a large collection of documents fanned out, but she frowned: most of them were typed up. Only the first was entirely in his old-ass spidery handwriting, the lettering as dark and curly-thin as it had always been.

Please see enclosed. I hope this proves my intentions to you  – H.

Well didn’t that just clear absolutely nothing up.

She put aside the top page with a frown and heard Hermes mutter a hmm under his breath. She didn’t bother to look at him, however, because the next several pages caught her attention: a contract. For the girl. Her breath stopped when she saw Eurydice printed at the top; wondered what was the point of him sending this. Wasn’t like if he’d taken her to bed he’d damn well put it in her contract that he had, except…well, he probably would, actually, but she didn’t really want to think on that, and purposefully skipped the girl's job duties. She caught a shadow on the page. Hermes was over her shoulder. Guess he couldn’t resist the allure after all. 

“Well that’s a bold move,” he said, like it was a joke, his tone all dry and amused. She took her attention off of Hades’ documents for a second, squinting at him.

“Do you mind?!” She hissed. Hermes put his hand on his chest and looked at Robert.

“Lord father above!” He sighed. “You’re starting to act like him, you know. Getting all cranky like that over a little joke. You've never met our sister's ball and chain, Robert, but he's terrible at taking jokes. Don't give him one when you cross his door; lots of people have tried that and more than a few have regretted it. I used to say it was safe to play jokes with our sister here, but, well. Looks like she's taking after the old man now. Course I suppose that’s bound to happen when you been married that long.”

“They really been married that long, brother Hermes?” Robert was playing along and she glared at him too, and was rewarded to see him falter a bit as he nearly dropped the glass he was polishing. Maybe Hermes thought guidin' this new demi-god would be better than leaving him to his own troubles and doubts, but Robert was still a demi-god and she was the full-blooded deal,  and since demi-gods died, well, she was gonna be his queen. And she wasn't afraid of pulling rank as his queen if she needed to. 

“Brother, sometimes I think they been married since the world began.” Hermes chuckled, but it wasn’t funny and Robert, like her, had the good grace not to laugh. Hermes patted her on the shoulder and she went back to scanning through Hades' packet. There had to be a reason he’d sent her this, hadn’t there? She scanned for any additions in his spider-script – easy to distinguish from the rest – and found only one:

Canceled – 17 May (Lethe) and his name written aside. So he’d sent the girl back the day she left. She supposed that was meant to be the message there, or as close as she could divine to one.

The next several pages were other contracts; ones for other workers. They differed little; he’d given each a standardized contract, and the only writing he’d actually done had been at the end. Unlike Eurydice’s, all of them, however, had a new field underneath:

On 25 July, 1936, I, Hades, King of the Underworld, hereby bequeathed this contract to Persephone, Queen and rightful Ruler of the Underworld.  

He’d signed his name under each, in careful lettering. Left a field for her to sign and date, because he was nothing if not anal retentive about his record keeping. And that addendum was written on every single contract.

“What the fuck?” She asked; Hermes and Robert both looked at her. Hermes put his hands out to look through the stack of contracts she had been hastily looking through, and Persephone batted his hand away. The last thing she needed was his little bon mots; it was hard enough to imagine just what the fuck Hades was thinking on her damn own, and Hermes was right that she knew that steel-trap mind better than anyone else ever had or ever likely would.

After the contracts was another hand-written page, this one impossibly old judging by the materials, yet looking brand new. Enchanted, which meant it was a very special kind of document, and her stomach dropped clear down to her toes when she realized what she was holding. “Oh, you motherfucker.”

The title of lord and keeper of the underworld and all its attendant rights, privileges, and honors, is awarded to  — He’d crossed out his name, and put in her own. She stared at it in shock, the deed to a third of the universe sitting right in her damned fingertips. 

He’d given her the underworld itself. Why?! He’d said he’d hoped this would show his intentions, but she didn’t have a damned idea what those intentions were. Was this another ploy to suck her down there, full-time? He damn well wasn’t going to be the one spurting up every spring to water the daisies now, was he? He had to know that just signing it over to her didn’t make it so she had to be there, right? She didn’t feel pulled any more toward the underworld than she generally did. It was - well, she supposed she'd have to sign to make it permanent (he had, of course, added a field for her name and the date), and thank all the gods for that, because she didn't want to, not at all. 

Hermes pressed a hand on her shoulder and she was too preoccupied to shoo him off. “Oh, sister,” he said quietly, and nothing else. He squeezed her shoulder but she couldn’t feel it. She took a deep breath and flipped to the last two pages.

The first was simple and nothing new: a print-out of all their numerous accounts, in numerous banks, mortal and otherwise, with all key-codes, all with her authorization numbers next to his. A handy financial reference list, but she couldn’t figure out why he’d given it to her until she saw the last page.

A worker’s contract, but this time, he’d written in his own name for the worker, and left the fields blank for the job duties he’d filled in for everyone else: it was clear that he expected her to dictate the terms of his contract. Her blood ran cold at the sight of it – he’d already signed his name at the bottom and dated it, three weeks before. Had left room for her name, too, and of course, the date.

Anal retentive bastard.

She dabbed at tears that flowed at her own eyes, and wasn’t sure if she was more sad or furious or touched or, somehow, some weird mix of the three. She slammed the letter on the table and walked out the door, not caring a damn bit how odd this was gonna look. It was a busy day, one of the dog days of a late summer,  plenty of kids on the block. She didn’t care. She sat out on the grassy ground outside Hermes’ little dive and sunk her hand as deep into the earth as she could. Hades. Get up here. Hermes’ place. NOW.

The earth rippled a bit under her feet, a small earthquake that didn’t travel beyond Hermes' doorstep. That, she knew, was his answer. He was coming.

She heard the door open behind her, saw Robert lookin’ at her with concern.

“Miss Persephone? You okay there?” He walked a couple of steps closer. “Must be bad news. Mr. Hermes said your man communicates with the weather sometimes.”

She stared at him with a look that would make any mortal man quail, but he only flinched a bit. “Sorry. Not my business, I suppose. Just tryin’ to help.”

“You wanna help? Stay out of the way,” she hissed. "This isn't something a half-human like you can fix — no offense. Me and him, we lived a hundred thousand times longer than you ever will and if we can’t find our way I don’t think you can help, brother. Maybe you're lucky your wives ain’t livin'.” He didn't have an answer for that, and she didn't wait for one. She stomped back into the bar and found it unusually deserted. Hermes was at the door, already flipping the side from open to closed and she realized he'd shut the place down. Always was her best brother, Hermes.

“Don’t take it out on the kid, ain’t his fault.” It sounded eerily similar to what Hermes might have said about Orpheus or that girl once, and she waved away the guilt. Couldn’t think of that, the wound still too tender. She glanced toward the paperwork. She wondered where Orpheus was; he wouldn't show his face around there, not again. Which was damn bad, because she could use his magic music right now, to save her and save him and save them. 

Except of course, it hadn’t really, ‘cept for a moment. He’d proved they were still in love but hadn’t fixed anything else aside, and that was up to them and pretty much no seem seemed able to answer the central question that had been burning through them both since the sun started to shine: How long? How long? How long?

“Am I to take from that earthquake that old man winter is comin' to pay us a visit?” Hermes asked quiet, threw his arms around her shoulders in a rare big hug. They weren’t generally so affectionate, but she knew Hermes had probably rifled through those papers, knew what her signing them would mean, especially that deed she knew he'd peeped at. Knew what Hades was offering her, and knew, too, what she'd think of it. Which wasn't much; how was she to react? He'd seemingly decided that instead of trying to dictate everything, he'd just let her dictate everything. And that wasn't going to work out any better than what already had. Was that all he thought he was worth to her? Just some piece of paper? Just some property?

“I reckon he will if he knows what’s good for him.”

Hermes sighed dramatically in her ear and put his hands into a pleading prayer. If she hadn't known him better, she'd have thought him serious. “Sister, please, whatever you two do, try to keep the weather outside. This is all wood, sister! Think of the damage snow would inflict. Have mercy on me.”

She snorted.  “I’ll try. Best I can promise.”

“Well, so long as you know you're paying for the damages.” He cocked his eyebrow. “Judgin’ by that stack over there, you can afford it.”

Definitely a snoop, her baby brother. She rolled her eyes. “Like you couldn’t.” That was the plus side of being immortal; compound interest worked in your favor when you’d been alive as long as they all had been. Even her most foolish relatives had more money now than they had sense by exponential levels.

 "I think…I think I need a drink. Get me a whiskey and water,” she snapped; Robert bounced into action, clearly a bit terrified of her now. Hermes gave her a stern look.

“You really think that’s going to help?” It wouldn’t, she knew, but she needed something to calm down her nerves, and nothing was as good as a sweet bit of summertime hops in her veins for that.

“I need some liquid courage for this. Just one. I’ll sip it, if you want. We got time 'til he shows his mug.”

“Who shows who’s mug?” Robert asked, all confused. Neither of them bothered to explain for a minute; she took a long sip of her drink. “Her husband? Didn’t think he could cross til the fall, Mister Hermes.”

“Death himself can always cross over, brother Rob,” she said, with a bitter laugh that set even Hermes aback. “Always somebody dyin' to meet him.” She sipped at her drink and stared hatefully at the stack. All those possessions and her man still didn’t get it. Was never about what he could provide. Was about what he couldn’t. He could shower her in coins all day long but it didn’t mean a thing if he was gonna snarl every time she left his side.

“You wanna make yourself helpful and live through the day? Play me a song,” she snarled. “Remind me why I shouldn’t skewer my husband's ass straight on the sword.”

Brother Robert took out his guitar, and he was a mighty good player indeed. But he wasn’t touched by a muse, even if he was a demi-God, and his lyrics about finding death at a crossroads full of wide and bendin’ roads didn’t touch her quite the way Orpheus’ simple la la la la la la had.

Or maybe it was just that they were just that far beyond saving.

Neither she nor Hermes spoke much at all, waiting. They both listened to brother Rob’s song in knowing it wasn’t gonna help, and the mood was outright funerary.

It took about an hour for Death to broach the door, which meant he’d left right away, at least. She listened to the high and lonesome sound of the train as it careened into the station, its arrival unexpected but, equally, unnoticed by all the mortals who couldn’t hear its call. She listened as it went still, listened as the outdoors got right quiet. She didn’t bother to stand 'til she heard the click of the door.

And there he was.

She studied him real careful from behind her drink. He looked much the same as always: black sunglasses, a black jacket, black pants, black tie. No heavy coat, supposed that was something. His mouth was set in a line that looked like a smile 'til he looked at her – then it dropped into a frown. She supposed she didn’t look damn happy, but then what woman would be when her husband had just offered to sign his life away as her slave?

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.” Neutral greeting, careful. Robert pointed and gestured at Hermes, who nodded careful-like.

“Sit,” she said.

He did. She wondered if he thought of it as a command, already trying to get used to no longer behind the one in charge. He sat across from her, his hands folded neatly on the table.

She tried to think of a way to start this conversation, though didn’t seem fair that she was always starting ‘em. To her surprise, he came up with an opener before she did.

“You get my letter, I take it?” He asked.

“Uh huh. Why you think I called your ass up here?”

“I don’t know,” he said, mighty quiet. Asshole. He frowned. She guessed maybe he was hopin’ she’d be pleased with his little paper stack, but why she couldn’t possibly divine.

“You said it was to make your intentions clear, but boy…you ain’t too clear.” She held up the stack of papers, dropped them in an elaborate thwomp onto the table. “So let me say it plain, so you don’t get confused: What the fuck is this? What’s the purpose of this?”

“I’m giving you everything.” He reached out across the table, and she stared at his hand warily. It looked like an invasive species, all pale against the rich brown of Hermes table. “Everything I’ve ever owned. Everything. I don’t —“ his voice broke a bit, and he looked away. “Hermes, get me a drink, would you? Whatever my wife is having.”

Hermes nodded, fetched a whiskey and water. Put it in front of him.  He didn’t touch it.

“Are you dying?” She asked, and felt a tremor in her own voice. “Do you want to die? Because I can’t figure out why the hell else you’d send me all this, why you're giving me this now.”

“No. Not dying.” He opened his hand more insistently, and she let her fingernails graze the edge of his thick fingers, callused as a worker’s hands despite his noble blood. “I’m giving you everything, Persephone. All I’ve got. That’s the intention.”

Clear as a bundle of mud, her man. He must have seen her face, because he flicked off the glasses, put them on the table. Took a long, long sip of his drink and grimaced, as if it was bitter. Probably wasn't more bitter than she'd been at points. “You want me to die, I will die for you. Might take a while to find a way, but…” He smiled, sardonic and bitter and quiet as darkness itself. “I’ll find a way. If that’s what you want. I will do it, for you.”

“It’s not what I want.” She grabbed his hand from across the table, folded it in her own and wound it together with hers. “This, I don’t…I don’t want none of this, Hades.”

She shoved the papers back towards him and he looked down, and she caught the big swallow in that big, trembling throat. She heard Robert thrumming on his guitar to the best of his ability but it wasn’t helping, she thought; Hades was looking at her like he was getting washed away in the Styx. Storm clouds gathered outside and she felt rain pelt the windows, and wasn’t sure if that was him or her.

“I don’t — I don’t have anything else,” he muttered. “I don’t have anything else to make you happy. I – that’s my whole hand, Persephone.” He sounded broken, and he stood. Lightning crashed against the windows. “Guess I — you want me to draft divorce papers? Would that make you…” He swallowed, and she thought, gods damned impossible man. Hermes must have panicked, because she heard him start to play along, the dim and dusky strains of a lyre she hadn’t heard hide nor hair of in a thousand years. She could barely breathe as Hades held out his hands toward her. “Would it make you…happy? To not be my…”

“Don’t you dare fold our hand, you bastard.” She stood, and heard Hermes doing his best to try to inspire with brother Rob, to sing a grand romantic song, and it was, their music. It was a god’s song of such heartbreaking beauty that even Orpheus and Paulie and all the Muses above would have wept for it. But it didn’t matter, because it was never the music that mattered: it was the man and he was looking more miserable than anything she’d ever seen. She grabbed his big cheeks, looked him dead in the eye, and opted to level with him.

“Baby, I ain’t in love with Hades, the King. I’m in love with Hades, the man. Love ain’t a gilded cage; it ain’t in the stuff. It’s in the man. It’s…always been the man, lover. That’s why…I can’t have you as a slave, because it wouldn’t be you anymore. Just be…a stud horse who wears your face. If you ain’t there as you is — as impossible as you is — then it ain’t…it ain’t right.”  

“You’re still in…?” He pulled her close, and the band stopped playing. For a couple of moments, she held him in the deepest, most tender silence she’d ever seen. She wrapped her hands over his big shoulders and pressed her head to his own, miming a courtship of her very own, and he wasn’t that dumb, he caught on what she was wordlessly saying right quick. “Oh. Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” She stroked her hands through his hair and he leaned into her shoulder. “It’s always been you, baby,” she whispered and felt him shudder against her.

“Can we…?” He cleared his throat. “Talk? Alone?”

“Come home with me,” she whispered, and he nodded. Didn’t even ask what home she meant.  

“Hermes, check.” He snapped his fingers like a man who was used to being obeyed, and Hermes just shook his head, amused.

“On the house,” he said. “Get going. Try to keep the weather nice.”

He put his hand on her back and she put hers on his. He led her out the door, and neither of them commented that the rain had abruptly stopped. She thought there was a chance he might lead her back to the train, but he didn’t, just folded his hand in hers and let her lead. When she turned him toward the path back to mama’s, he hesitated only for a second.

“She gonna mind me coming around?” He asked; she shook her head.

“You might see her a minute, but mama’s got a bunch of uh…cabbages, that ain’t giving her nothing but grief. She might be needling with them…all night.” The raised eyebrow he gave her made her sure that he knew that was a cover, but the smile told her he was perfectly okay with bootin’ her poor mama out of her home too.

“Okay.” He swallowed, looked out on the old dirt road as she held her hand. They were both quiet a long moment and she bit her lip; she had been without him for a while, and she still didn’t know exactly what to tell him. She’d been expecting there would be some magic, some key statement she could say to magically heal all their wounds.

But there wasn’t, or at least she couldn’t find any.

Just Persephone and Hades, six feet up.

They walked together in silence a long moment, and she started trying to think of something, anything to talk about. But every topic seemed too dangerous a field to broach, and then to her surprise, it was him that talked first.

“Think it’ll be an early fall, this year?” He asked, quiet. There was hope in his voice, and she winced. The easy thing would be to tell him yes, to tell him that she’d run home with him, and she’d done that more than a few times in the past. And where had it gotten them? Nowhere good. Just a temporary salve.

“There’s a lot of damage, lover,” she said instead, and she didn’t know if she was talking about them, or the ground, or both. “It’d be better for everyone if it were…”

“Late. I know.” He squeezed her hand, and looked down. “So be it. I had a couple of weeks in May, after all. Suppose its fair if I make up the difference.” That none of those weeks he’d nipped in May were the slightest bit happy well…She sighed. She leaned in close to him and he looked at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“My fault.” He shrugged. “All of it is…it’s just my fault.”

“That ain’t true.” She stopped in the crossroads and gave him a bit of a glare. “Don’t think you can grab all the blame, old man.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Not productive, going into who-blames-who. Spent too many winters on blaming one another and not enough of them on talkin’ to one another.”

“I know. I…” he cleared his throat, looked away, and she knew he was turning tail. “The road is a lot smaller than I thought, you know. It looked so much larger…”

“Amazing what being six feet tall instead of six feet under does for perspective.” She sighed and walked a few feet in front of him; he followed behind, she knew, and she had the liberty of looking. Unlike the mortals.

He was watching her real careful, like she was the only rope he had out of a long darkness.

“Hades.”

“Yes?”

“What do you want? Let’s just say it plain. Tell me: what you want? How do I make you happy?” Maybe, after all the years of assumptions and tears, it was best to just say it plain. She looked him in the eye and found him looking back.

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked as serious as she’d ever seen him. “Be my wife,” he said, soft. “All I ever wanted was your hand to hold.”

“Well, good news.” She stroked his cheek with her ring finger and he leaned into it. He’d made that ring, a good several thousand years ago. “Still married.”

“Be happy being my wife, then.” He pulled away. “You ain’t been happy in a long time and I been tryin’ to make you so for years. But all my ideas have been...well.” He scoffed. “You ain’t liked ‘em, I’ll say that much.”

“I’ve never regretted being your wife.” He cast a baleful look at her and kicked up a bit of dust, which she was pretty sure was him having plenty of doubt but not wanting to cause a storm over it. He didn’t say anything, just bit at his lips to stop the venom spilling over, and she sighed.

“You gotta talk to me, Hades. I…I really haven’t regretted bein’ married to you, even if it’s been hard. But – it has been hard. Years and years going around this question of my time and It’s – I am who I am, baby. You want a woman a full year round and that’s not…that’s not possible. I wish it were.”

“I wish it were, too.” He swallowed and sighed. “But I just — I’d have six months with you over nothing at all.”

“But that’s not enough.” She frowned. “Lover, we both know it’s not. You wouldn’t have to keep trying to scar the earth if six months were—"

“A starving man will take one meal over the absence of any meal, won’t he?” He snapped, then covered his face with his hand. “Sorry. Look.” He curled his hand around hers and pressed her hand to his mouth. “I am not good at this sort of…conversation, lover.”

“No shit.” It flew out of her mouth without even thinking and she winced. “And neither am I, I guess. I’m sorry, this is…this is hard.”

He curled his lips up into a sardonic smile. “Least we’re both awful at it together.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” She laughed and he laughed with her and things felt just a tiny bit lighter for it.

He cleared his throat after a moment of laughing and looked at her, dour as ever. “What I’m trying to say is, well, there’s nobody but you for me. I know that now. And when you come to see me and you just look so mad and you don’t want any part of me or my realm or my bed, I feel…I feel…” He trailed off, and she understood what he meant: he was starving, starving for her affection, for intimacy with her, and they’d both been lacking it for a long time. “It drives me insane, darlin’. What do I gotta do or change to make you want to come home with me?”

“I do want to come to you, baby. But it’d be a lot easier if you – if you waited 'til I was ready.” She thought of all the times he hadn’t, of how much the earth had been permanently scared because of it. Knew that if they kept this up, it wouldn’t be just them in a death spiral. “I can’t keep cutting out to be with you, that’s the truth of it. Ain’t that I don’t want to, but I’ve got duties. I want things to go back to what they should be: life and death in a cycle, right and clean and natural. What goes down to the underworld goes down in the fall…and what comes up in spring, comes up. That’s how its gotta be. You gotta…You gotta understand that, or we’ll just wind up back walking in this circle again. If we’re lucky.”

The earth may not, she knew, give them many more chances.

“Okay.” He paused and held out his hand. “I can do that. We’ll start the old cycle in the fall, like we said. That’s progress. Startin’ down the road again.”

She stared at him in the sunlight; he’d forgotten his glasses and that hateful packet in the bar, and for a minute, she just watched him trudge after her on the path back to mama’s. And she saw, in his face, unhappiness, but, also, something more: his lips were determined, his eyes focusing on the road ahead. She took his hand and smiled at him and was rewarded with those eyes passing over her, capturing that great man’s attention.

“Alright.” She looked over to him and took a deep breath. “I am happy that you’re willing to walk that road with me.”

“Hm.” He didn’t say anything else for a long moment. She could tell he wasn’t exactly enthused to be back to the old standard, but that he was willing to try to keep to it was important. And he’d been willing to change, too, she reminded herself. She’d seen his face when the muse’s boy had made them dance, and she knew then and there that he’d loved her well and true.

And she thought, then, well, things might have to stay the same in some ways, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t change in others.

“I like seeing you up here, you know,” she said fondly; he turned to look at her in surprise, his squinting eyes widening. “It’s good to see you in the sunlight. Handsome man, my man.”

He gave her a look that was more puzzled than anything else, but it was followed with a watery smile that she hoped was a good sign. “I always thought you were the good looking one. Couldn’t take my eyes off you from that first moment, back in that garden. Still can’t.”

The hand that had been riding on the small of her back slipped a little lower; she let hers fall further down on him in response. She debated going for the full nine yards and goosing him, but well, she had an important question to ask, and she knew she couldn’t distract from it. They’d distracted one another with their bodies often enough and it hadn't helped in the end.

“Always did have a good tongue on you for someone who claims he can’t talk well in these kinds of talks.” She watched him look at her, dark eyes glittering, and felt her heart pound against her throat. “Why don’t you – would you consider coming up more often, lover? Spend a few days up here with me when we’re pulled so far apart? Nights, at least?”

“You would be willing to do that?” He stopped, abruptly. “Well. Even if you did…Your mama — “ He shook his head. “She wouldn’t be willing. Not for me.” 

“Already talked to her. It’s okay. She says its right okay if you come. She knows we-we gotta try, Hades.”

“I — alright. Alright. I would like that.” He leaned in on her and kissed her, once.  Soft and sweet and warming her all the way to her toes. She pressed her mouth a little bit more on him, let her tongue press to the tip of his mouth and deepened the kiss, deepened it all the way down to the root of her. She let her hand fall on his ass and felt him follow her lead on hanky-panky mighty quick.

“I love you,” he muttered, soft.  “I just, I love—“

“Come, husband.” She pulled him off the road, pulled him down to the cornfields. “Ma won’t mind if we show up a little late in the day.”

That was the nice thing about country living, too. No cars ever went past that road, or at least close enough to none. Not, truthfully, that she had the brain capacity to notice. She didn’t think he did either.

Because what happened then wasn’t a miracle and it wasn’t a magical salve, but it was the first time it had happened in a long time. Not the sex, no, but the way they touched one another; it was different than it had been, not perfunctory but exploring.  This wasn’t fucking, wasn’t even having sex so much as making love to one another, two natural elements falling the way they always should have been: in the oldest dance of all time, shared together. His hands shook as he held her, and she was honored, and if she cried a little bit when she came, hale and whole in his arms well — he kissed the tears away.

“Lover,” he whispered softly against her lips. “Lover.”

“How long?” She asked, softly. “How long will you try, for this girl?”

“Long as I live.” He squeezed her hand. “We’ll get this, lover. I – I believe we will.”

“Yes,” she said and smoothed his arms down. “Oh, yes, we will.”  

Now, that’s not to say that it was all ice cream and apple pie after that. Tryin’ doesn’t mean succeeding, and Persephone was old enough to know that sometimes people say something and then act a different way. Sometimes the road went left when the traveler thought it was going to go straight; sometimes it falls right out from underneath one's heels. When she was a young girl, she thought love was a straight road, but now she was old, older than dirt, and she knew now: love curved away from you whenever it could, and it took both time and a mighty effort to keep a hold of it.

And maybe it was a hard road to walk. Maybe it was too easy to fall into old habits. Maybe she despaired of that a bit when she got to that old clapboard house and told mama she got a cabbage situation and mama just sat up a little straighter and Hades glared her down. Maybe Persephone even rolled her eyes because they barely took half a second to fall into old habits, into him vs her and not supporting the one person they had in common.

But then Hades tried. Hades asked how mama nature was doin’, and mama was pleasantly surprised to see it, and maybe they talked a few minutes on corn and begonias and beans and even cabbages before mama went to town and borrowed a room from Hermes and his barman, gossiping the night away with a little southern comfort.  And maybe something about him trying softened them right then and there, because Persephone thought: there’s hope for us.

And maybe something softened in her a little more when they went inside, when Hades carried her bridal-style across mama’s doorway and took her straight to her room. And maybe they talked a long while there, maybe about nothing important, maybe small things and old memories, but they talked. And in talking, maybe some of the heaviness between them leaked out, maybe some of that bitterness caramelized into sweetness.

Now Persephone wasn’t a young girl anymore, even if she looked like one, and she had lived through some pretty dark days. Truth was, it didn’t all get better right away, because nothing does go perfect, not right away. There were some days she forgot to send him her letters; there were some days he was a right bit more resentful of that than he should be. Some days she ran late and some nights he came early.

But they kept on trying.

He honored her time and her work, and for her, that was the important part of the deal, and she was a happy, if still complicated, little lady. She asked him what he was thinking, pulled emotions out of that rock iron man like silk from a cocoon, and that made him feel better, too because only she had ever drawn that from him. The world healed up through time and through trying, and they did too. And that’s the important part for them both, in the end; they stumbled, they fell, they got back up again. Kept trying, no matter what. The world may have died, but the world came back to life. The dust bowl ended; spring sprouted.

And they did, too.

It took time for the seed Orpheus planted to sprout, took a few years to fall back into the rhythm, but them well–they’ve got all the time in the world, she thought, all the time in the world.

And that’s what she would have told anyone, if they listened. Hell, she’d still tell ya now: nothing is impossible with love, if ya try. It takes effort and work and dedication, but you can make it. Love will always sprout through the cracks if you water it often enough, she’d say, and she knew better than anyone else how things grew.

Nowadays? It's taken them a while, but they’ve got it figured out. When her big man comes down the track, the whistle doesn’t sound so high and lonely, not anymore. It’s just a song, a song for her,  and she takes it as she rightly should. Her husband’s still an important man, of course; they talk about the business together, her and him, and he respects her opinion enough not to do anything too rash as a grand gesture of love, because he’s finally learned she’d rather have an honest conversation than a million palaces. He’s still a man of opportunity, but now he focuses on using those opportunities to get a little extra time with her, instead of deals to increase their coin and their coffers. Death turns down the forges and turns his attention to occasionally stalkin’ Life in the mulberry bushes, and the humans, well, they’re nothing but thankful.

And the queen is nothing but thankful, too.

Now, love may blind her eyes, but she still thinks he’s beautiful. And she notices when they’re in sync, the world blossoms up between them. And for all her part in their passion play, Persephone has never really suffered winter, but — she’s aware of its existence, and its importance, and he is too. People’s bellies get fatter, the world gets better, and maybe they move on and maybe humanity moves right on with them.

And maybe when that train door opens once every six months, she’s ready for it.

The great man opens his arms wide and says, “it’s time, lover,” and she thinks it is rightly so. And she smiles and walks into his arms, and they go down, down under the ground.

And as the world slips under her feet, the road feels right and natural. Just as it should.