iii
(their world)
She shares his bed now, but they’ve never lain together as husband and wife. She sits with him now, on an ebony throne to match his, as people appeal to him. She eats with him now, lying on a low couch and shying away whenever he tries to place a grape in her mouth. They are together and yet she doesn’t believe any two people have ever been more apart.
She can see it irritating him this evening. He paces up and down the hall, whereas she sits on the throne in the clothes he has dressed her in, a bone-coloured dress and a black shawl, her hair pinned away from her neck by one of their subjects. The mortal woman seemed tired, resigned. She was middle-aged, with huge bags under her eyes and thin hair. Looking in the mirror, Persephone could see everything that was missing on the day she spoke with Aphrodite, the rose in her cheeks had returned, her hair shone once again and when comparing herself to the mortal serving-woman, she realised that she will never look as if she belongs anywhere again. She is dead in the living world and yet in the world of the dead she is very much alive.
He has his hand in his mouth, biting at his dirty nails. She tries hard to see what he is thinking but doesn’t know him well enough. She considers voicing her thoughts, but decides against it.
At last, he pauses in his pacing and turns to her, the shining black eyes glinting out of the shadows.
“It has to stop,” he says finally, with a resigned sigh.
“What does?” she asks, hoping that her voice does not betray her, for she knows what he is talking about.
“This,” he says and waves his hands in the air. “Us. We can’t continue, Persephone.” Whenever he says her name, it’s like a knife through the ribs. He uses it rarely, she’s noticed, but not as rarely as she names him. She barely speaks to him.
There is something of vanity in her now, she knows. Pride. Before she was humble and modest but now she knows she is the haughty and beautiful queen. She raises her head a little higher in reply to him.
“You see?” he says, beginning a little angrily. “You will not even say a word to me! Am I so repulsive that even my own wife refuses my company? You are as cold as the North Wind to me, and yet…” his voice softens and his eyes glisten in the dark as he looks her way. “And yet I know you capable of so much warmth. Why won’t you show me that?” She realises that his eyes are full of tears, not just firelight. He walks, nearly runs up the dais to her and takes her pale hand in his.
“Can you never love me?” he asks, and though the question is one of resignation, he seems hopeful.
She meets his eyes and is forced to look away. She bites her lip, for she knows he is wonderful. He treats her better than any queen should be and has never touched her except to take her hand or stroke her hair. He is kind to his pitiful kingdom, he is thoughtful and he rarely loses his temper. And he loves her. Eros has made sure of that.
But loyal to her mother and herself, she stands up and pushes past him, making her way down the hall.
“I shall send for Hermes,” he says, sitting down. “I have tried before and I will try again. I release all hold on you. Perhaps you will be happy stuck in winter beneath summer sun.” He rubs his tired eyes. “Go to bed, this shall be the last night you will have to bear in my halls.”
She continues down the hallway, confused. She wants to be joyful at his words, but something restricts her.
“I wish you could love me, my queen,” he says, quietly.
She turns to look at him, and finally replies, “So do I.”
She retires and pretends to sleep that night when he comes in and presses his lips against the crown of her head. “I will miss you, my little queen,” he murmurs. Then he rolls over and they both lie awake, knowing that the other only pretends to sleep.
She eventually dozes off into an uneasy slumber filled with bad dreams, and wakes to see the eerie light of underground hanging over her. The bed beside her is empty, and she feels strangely cold for it.
She rises and dresses herself in soft grey folds of silk and walks down the corridor to the throne chamber. She can hear raised voices, as she did that fateful day when she ate the pomegranate.
“Please just take her!” Her husband’s voice is filled with anger. “I can bear it no longer. Her unhappiness, it agonizes me, it kills me. Please. Take her home to her mother.”
“Only one of the six months is past-” Hermes begins calmly.
“I do not care!” Hades shouts. “I can’t take it! Take her somewhere where she is happy and I can rest in that thought.”
There is echoing silence for a minute, but then the messenger says, with the hint of mischief that is his signature, “Perhaps you should try to make her happy here.”
There is a sound as the king sits in his throne again. “I have tried. I have. But she will not… cannot…” he trails off in misery and she feels a pang, an aching in her heart, and knows that his pain is her fault, and no matter how much she may deny it, she can cure him.
“I am afraid there is nothing I can do. The laws are clear. I am sorry, friend.” He sounds genuine, sympathetic, affectionate. She peeks round the corner, and Hades flicks a hand at him.
“Go. I am sure you have other errands.”
The messenger clicks his heels, bows, then flies away. She is silent in her hiding place around the corner, until he says, “I know you are there, my queen.”
She turns the corner and curtsies to him. “My lord,” she says. “I was coming to greet you.”
“I have tried,” he says, gesturing at the tunnel that Hermes has just flown through. “I am sorry.”
Neither of them speak for a while. He does not meet her eye, only looks down at his own bony toes protruding from beneath his robe. Suddenly, she sees him no longer as the god to be hated and feared for what he has done to her, but as a broken-hearted and broken-spirited man who wants something simple off her that she refuses to give. Refuses to, for she knows in her heart that it is a lie to say that she can never love him. He is kind and beautiful and more than somebody as selfish as her should deserve.
So as an answer, her heart prompts her to move towards him and with a whispered “thank you” she presses her lips against his. It is the lightest of kisses, but suddenly she is left wanting more. A hunger fills his glittering eyes, which she can see he immediately suppresses.
She gives the tiniest of nods, strange new emotion flooding her body.
He grabs her by the waist and presses her to him, as if hoping they will become one entity. But rather than push away in disgust as she may have done another time, she lets her own instincts rule her, curling his thick black locks in her fingers and holding his head against hers, prolonging the kiss for as long as she can. For though she would not admit it, she realises that below her apparent hatred her desire for him has been prickling for a while now and all she lets herself do this.
They break apart, and looking into the eyes the shade of darkest night, she cannot think of anywhere she would rather be. Then she does what she has not in a very long time and curls her lips into a smile.
“Are you sure?” he asks her softly, brushing a strand of hair off her face with rough fingers.
“You’re my husband, aren’t you?” she answers back. “Shouldn’t a husband and wife love each other?”
He stares in amazement. “And do you love me?”
She pauses for a moment, considering, but the answer that has been hidden for so long is suddenly as clear as dazzling sunlight.
“I think I do. I think I just denied it. But… I think…” she frowns, looking back. “That first time you held me when I swallowed the seeds. I loved you then. But I hated what you had done more.”
He nods. “I will never hurt you again, my queen.”
“Nor I you, my king,” she smiles back. “For I have been hurting you, I think, more than you have been hurting me.”
He wraps his arms around her and she listens to the beating of his heart, fast and strong, and the six dead weights that have been sitting in her stomach for so long seem to melt.
“It’s funny,” she murmurs. “How this happened.”
He holds her at arm’s length and gives her a quizzical look.
“Because, in the end,” she says, settling against him once again. “They were only pomegranate seeds.”
There is a pause, then a belly laugh rises up his throat and escapes him, and she joins in. They laugh for no reason at all and laugh and laugh until their sides ache and then hand in hand, they sit in their thrones, as king and queen of the Underworld.
AN- this needs work, especially the end. Help much appreciated
