i
(his world)
His voice is low and pleading in her ear. It speaks of a thousand battles lost, generations destroyed, cities massacred by disease and famine. All the tragedy in the world, the awful, heartbreaking sadness that it is to be alive is layered in his words, three simple words that rip her soul and body apart.
“Please,” it begins. “Eat something.”
She buries her head deeper into the soft, downy cushions scattered on the couch. Her long hair, cascading in loops and tendrils, tickles scratchily against her cheeks. She ignores it and fights a sob, because she won’t let him know she’s crying, she won’t. Do you honestly think he doesn't know? says a voice in the back of her mind, but she ignores it.
“What about this?” he says, and she opens her eye a fraction. A pomegranate, soft and pink, seems out of place in his hard, stubby fingers.
He lays it down next to the fruit bowl sitting on the stone table and instead lays the hand on her back. It’s cold against her skin and she shies away from his touch, she doesn’t want anything to do with him. He lets a long miserable sigh out, whistling slightly as it passes his teeth, trembling in the cool, earthy air where it hangs between them. She frowns into the cushion. She would usually detest causing another being to be unhappy, but after what he’s done she can bear it. And yet the fact that he worries over her, barely leaves her side, watches over her and is only hurt by what she is doing to herself makes her feel uncomfortable.
So slowly she sits up, her hair swinging forward to over her face, blotchy and red from crying.
“What do you want?” she asks. Her voice is smaller than she remembers as if it is wasting away instead of her body.
“You know what I want,” he says simply. His beetle black eyes search her face and drop again. She looks away too, ashamed. How can she not help him? Her mother would. Then the memories of her mother come flooding back, the way she held her, sang to her, brushed her hair…
And now how her mother’s grief is destroying the world and how she has to get back.
“Persephone…”
He says her name like a man may whisper for water in the desert, desperate, begging and wishing. She doesn’t lift her head. She’s never known grief like that which she feels now. Her life has been of picking flowers and chasing butterflies. But his pleas, his sorrow, seem so huge that hers does not compare. For a moment she wants to put her arms around his cloaked back, stroke his iron grey hair and whisper back to him they everything will be alright. Just for a moment.
Then she remembers what he has done, stealing her away and bringing her here where nothing grows. She remembers where she is, in a room with a bare rock floor and earthen ceiling, with nothing in it but the couch and the table.
“Let me go,” she says with all the strength she can muster.
“I can’t,” he says and takes her hands. Her slender pink fingers seem oddly delicate in his.
“Why not?” she says, and she feels a salty tear run down her cheek. “Why not, Hades?” With a shock, she realises she’s never used his name before. It’s hard and blunt and suits this black aging figure before her perfectly.
He pauses and those shining black eyes bore into hers again. “You’re beautiful.”
“And so are a thousand other girls!” she says. “Please…” she adds softly. “Take one of them.” She feels selfish for saying it and is immediately ashamed.
“But I only want you,” he says, gripping her hands hard for a second. The atmosphere is oppressive, his words press in on her. She pulls her hands away, only now realising what a relief his cool fingers were against the heavy underground air. But she continues to turn away and collapse on the cushions.
She feels his weight being removed from the couch and his footsteps slowly, softly pad away.
He pauses at the door. “I don’t mean you any harm, Persephone,” he says and all of a sudden, tiredness is the chief emotion in his voice. “Please… just eat .”
And he’s gone.
Slowly and smoothly, different from her usual, skittish, sudden movements, she sits up and surveys the fruit bowl. Apples gleam and grapes drip lusciously over the edge. Perfectly ripe plums and peaches nestle nest to the huge, juicy, exotic oranges and lemons.
Her eyes settle on the pomegranate. Please… just eat. the words are still in the room. She picks it up, thinking that he only needs her to do this, to look after herself, to be peaceful at soul. She thinks that perhaps she can do this one simple thing as an apology. An apology because she can’t give him what he wants, no matter how hard he tries to make her, she won’t, she can’t love him, she tells herself, because he’s cruel and evil. Or is he? says a voice. Perhaps you’re just hiding from the truth.
She’s shocked that such a voice even exists and that it sounds as she used to, carefree and young. But pushing it aside, she takes the silver fruit knife and cuts the pomegranate in half. The bright red seeds spill out and with trembling fingers she places one in her mouth. It’s sweet and moist and wonderful after so long with nothing. She swallows it gratefully.
Her head is clearing and she thinks perhaps she should go and find him and tell him she’s eating. It may cheer him up.
She stands, her legs bravely taking the weight after so long. They’re spindly beneath the pink dress she’s wearing. He’s left her a pile of clothes, black and grey and brown and red, but she leaves them lying untouched where they are by the wall of the chamber and stumbles nervously away to try and find him.
The passage twists here and there, packed earth and cold stone the whole way. She pops seeds into her mouth, wiping her eyes, forming a plan. She intends to demand her release, to seem strong like her mother. And still she feels a pang for him, wishing that she could feel the way he does about her.
As she puts a fourth seed in her mouth, she hears voices.
“Your brother demands her release.” It is male, but light and tinkling. She immediately recognises it and puts a name to it. Hermes. She peeks round the next corner and sees the flutter of wings upon his heels.
“He needn’t.” Hades’ voice is gravelly, croaking as if he has been crying. She peers around again. He is sitting in one of the dark stone thrones at the top of the long hall, Hermes standing before him. The other throne is resolutely empty. He looks exhausted. “She is not happy here, I will not hold her.”
“I am glad. Demeter will restore the world to its former glory upon her daughter’s return.”
She is shocked, swallowing her fifth seed. He will let her go. She is elated and warmth spreads throughout her body at the thought of seeing her mother again.
Just as she is about to come from her hiding place to smile and thank them, the messenger begins to speak again. Joyful and buoyant, she settles another seed on her tongue.
“There is but one condition. Should she have eaten anything the old laws decree that she must remain forever.”
Her mouth turns to dust.
“I had forgotten. It is fortunate then, that she has been starving herself.”
The half fruit rolls out of her fingers and she falls to the floor. Both rush to see what the noise is. His black eyes settle upon the pomegranate and his brows knit together, his face pilled into the picture of regret.
She however, has spent all her tears.
“I did not know, I swear I did not know,” he says, gripping her shoulders.
“Forever?” is all she can manages, looking at the messenger.
“Forever,” he says, bowing his bronze head.
Her tears suddenly find their way back and they mix with his and he reaches forward to embrace her. “I did not know, I did not know…”
Hermes watches them. “I shall tell Zeus.”
“No!” His voice is fierce and he pulls apart from her arms that cling to him of their own accord. “How much did you eat?” he asks.
“Six… six seeds,” she manages to gulp. “But…” she looks up at him. “They’re only pomegranate seeds, aren’t they? They don’t count for anything do they?”
He shakes his head fervently. “Of course not.” He looks up at Hermes, who seems uneasy but does not speak.
“Only pomegranate seeds,” Hades agrees and despite all her resolutions, she loves him for it.
The second part is written, just not typed up, and the third isn't written quite yet. But what do you think? Horribly overwritten? Waffling? Repetitive? Tell all! Stel x
