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The daughter of life.
Persephone rolls her moniker around her tongue, whispering it like a secret, wearing it in the darkest green gown stark against her skin and the flowers weaved in her hair.
Queen of Hades.
Her dress is draped to the floor, and even longer is the cape she carries on her shoulders. Persephone considers the stretch of time between her and this new title, how it sits within her reach, so close that she finally feels the Lord of this Realm giving in to her— finally sinking into her light (not her innocence, of course; there’s never been anything innocent about her; she wants him forgetting, wants to see what lies beyond that grip he has on himself until he is lost entirely for a little while.)
Today she is a bride, she’s his bride, but even now she defies, settling for a pink flush across her cheeks to look like she was touched by the sun, and bearing her skin where the green silk plunges down to the small of her back. It was she who asked for it, naturally. After eating the pomegranates, “I want a wedding,” she chimed, the flutter in her chest beaming out of her in a smile— a genuine thing that hid no scheme, a smile for the joy she found in the dark horror of the Underworld.
His surprise came in a disbelieving scoff. Then, “A wedding, huh,” he said, looking as though he was turning the thought around in his mind.
“A wedding,” she responded. “I want to be a bride and dress like one. I want flowers here, lots of them, to wear in my hair and around my ankles." And before he dryly brought up the fact that she never dressed in anything less than the finest silk anyway, and that she always has flowers braided into her hair, “And have you swear yourself to me, sacred oath and all.”
(Persephone later learns that it wasn’t the concept of celebrating in the Underworld that took him aback— it was that he wasn’t sure why she would want to celebrate being bound to him for eternity. Fool thing; that had earned him an eternity of having her love professed to him, roared for the entire Underworld to hear, or breathed softly into his skin, a prayer, only his.)
From the way the light changed in his eyes, she could tell that he was savoring the thought. “No guests and no feasts, of course, just you and I and our vows.” The seat underneath her had changed into a throne adorned with emeralds as soon as the pomegranate seeds were inside her mouth, and she leaned over it to whisper to him, “but that means the consummation will have to wait for a little longer, I’m afraid.”
That drew an amused, short chuckle. “Good. It’ll teach you some patience,” he retorted, teasing.
Before she had a chance to let the swirl in the pit of her stomach show itself in a blush, she rose to her feet. “Then I shall go pick my flowers, and you,” she told him, tipping his chin towards her. “Better not be looking like a shipwrecked mortal on the day.”
“Or?” Hades asked shamelessly, and she almost laughed at how he didn’t even deny looking like a shipwrecked mortal.
“Or I will have you vow to give yourself to me, and accept without offering anything back,” she said, and she stroked the smile on his face that came with him calling her a rogue.
Today she has her maids tending to her, braiding her hair into a loose bun by the nape of her neck. Her flowers are the color of ripe peaches and terracotta, the color of her hair, and they’re weaved into it, and she holds some in her hands— garlands of muted carnations and rust-colored foliage.
(She stole her maids away when she plucked flowers— did so swiftly and decisively, without allowing anyone on the surface to notice. He found it amusing when he heard; wasn’t he supposed to be the one who took their girls and dragged them to the world below?)
The gold cuffs on her wrists are heavy and beautiful, grounding when she presses a hand to still the anxious fluttering inside her. “You may leave,” she tells her attendants and eases their way back to the mortals’ world— then she is alone in his castle, with only him.
It is a grand thing, the castle, large and dark, looming— built of the minerals of the dead, carved out of bone and iron. But it is intricately made, telling of a refined, subdued taste, archways and long passages of darkness lit with floating silver flames. Wandering souls sometimes lose their way and cross over, through grey stone and dust. But it is only Persephone and Hades now, not a single other soul in this vastness, and she strides alone down the paths that lead to their meeting place, her senses heightened by what awaits.
She stands before the grand ash-colored gates and they jolt open that instant. Then she sees him.
He’s standing beneath the branches of an old tree, huge and bestowing her limbs down on him, perhaps the last living thing here aside from them— and she isn’t burning though little kindles flutter on her leaves, and the light is so enchanting Persephone almost cries. But she holds her wits about her and walks in slow, measured steps, and it is clear from afar that no one looks shipwrecked with how impeccably his robes are draped, how regal his stance, but she still has to resist the fierce urge to throw herself into his arms and laugh and kiss him out of his wits when she notices that he’s tied his hair back, and that his beard’s been neatly trimmed.
“You look too fucking good,” she says, still too far to touch, her steps as slow as they had been when she first entered. She feels something burning in her center now, and when he fastens his gaze on hers she holds it. He likes what he sees, too.
“Then you might want to hurry up so we can get this over with.”
“What happened to your virtue of patience?” Persephone retorts, and she sees it from the way his lips press together that he is trying not to laugh.
“I only say it for your sake,” he tells her, casually. “You’re looking at me like you’re in dire need for this to end as soon as it can.”
“Only because my gown is too heavy.”
“We’ll get you out of it in a few minutes.”
She lets out a laughing, exasperated sigh, and allows him to win this time. They’re both quiet until the space between them closes entirely. He reaches out to touch her, his palm cupping her face, and her breath catches. Hades says her name first, softly, and she finds that her eyes refuse to hold his anymore— she thinks of Tantalus, his eyes downcast to the water that promises in vain to quench his thirst, and for these seconds she is Tantalus, tortured and aching for something just out of reach.
But then he speaks, with no snark nor jest, and she feels washed over by his voice, and he promises her his Kingdom, this abhorring pit of death, and then he promises her himself, and she sinks, and she sinks.
It’s the longest string of words she’s ever heard from him at once, and before he seals his oath she finds her fingers reaching out to find his lips, to pry another few words or to touch them, brand them into her palm where she would save them forever, feel whether they are made of fire or smoke, or mist.
It ends with a silence that tells of her turn. He gave before he claimed, but she claims first. “Be mine,” she says, a demand that is almost a breath, her hands bringing his face closer until their mouths almost meet. “And I shall be yours, wholly, eternally.”
That is all she has to say, and she feels the charge of things going back to him. Every part of her is set alight, so desperate that her hands curl around his wrists; but he teases a little more, leaving her shuddering in need. Soon he yields, but before she finally feels his lips, they hear a crash outside the banquet hall, the sound of metal hitting the floor, and two too-familiar voices.
Gasping, Hermes opens the gate, his face red and covered with a sheen of sweat. “Made it!” he chimes, tucks his curls behind his ears, and then places his hands on his waist in triumph. “See?” Hermes asks the figure behind him. “I told you they’re getting married.”
“Hello hello,” comes Dionysus’s voice as he drags his feet behind Hermes. He leans against the doorframe and waves a crystal flask of blood-colored wine while looking entirely unwell. Dionysus tries to play it off, chattering about how lovely Persephone looks and some other nothings before he sits down on the floor then rests against it. On his back, “Apologies for this,” he says. Persephone hears Hades mutter to Dionysus 'you look like shit,' before Dionysus continues unperturbed, “I was manhandled all the way here from Olympus.”
Hermes chuckles and runs his thumb over the tip of his nose. Clad in his winged golden helmet and white robes, he is all boyish charm and warmth. “We had to hurry!” He exclaims to Dionysus, who remains still pressed on the floors, blue in the face with motion sickness. “See? We barely made it in time.”
When she asks how he’s heard of this, “I seduced your maids,” he tells Persephone, winking. “It only took a few kisses and promises behind a willow tree, but I dashed to get Dionysus as soon as your pretty little lambs told me that they emerged from the Underworld because their mistress is marrying the King of the Dead! I’ll return to them to make good on those promises, though,” he continues, his tone too innocent for the implication.
"It does not matter how you heard of this," Hades says coldly. "Why are you here?"
“And let pass the chance to see you all dressed up and smitten, Hades?" Hermes replies, exaggerating the irrationality of the thought. "Never thought of you as the type to commit, though," he continues, contemplating. "Or have enough affection for..." Hermes gestures with his hand at the space between Hades and her. "This. Oh, you stingy old thing. You could’ve at least invited us to share your joy.”
“ There wouldn’t be joy to share if word reached Demeter,” Hades responds through his teeth.
Their guests both wince at the thought; Persephone has always noticed the ease with which they let her have him— these younger Olympians unburdened by the lines drawn by anger and old, stagnant affairs. Then, "Oh," Dionysus finally speaks. He rises to his feet and smooths out his purple robes, then catches Hades' eyes. "But please, do not let us distract you from your ceremony," he says, an utter distraction in his own right when he draws in a breath as not to be sick.
Hades point a finger at Dionysus. Threatening, “You better not hurl on my flooring,” he says like he needs someone to keep an eye on Dionysus while he takes care of more important matters. She wonders what his next move will be. He's always been agonizingly reserved with his affections, and she can't imagine that having an audience will make it easier. Hermes begins to speak again, she hears, about how they're married now and he can't shy away from—
But then Hades takes her by the waist with one hand, the other tilting her face towards him, and the feel of his rough lips on hers is such a relief that she can't help the tiny moan that escapes her throat. Dionysus and Hermes whistle flirtatious hoots that soon stop because this isn't a shy, chaste kiss that modesty will end, and it isn't the torture of his mouth on her knuckles and the pads of her fingers, as far as they went before tonight. This is hungry and lasting and warm, and it overpowers her as his hand slides to her shoulders and hers clutch his robes.
Her legs buckle and she feels the slant of his mouth as he lets go, smiling. She’s very little mind to spare the spectators, jaws all but dragging on the floors, until, “Why does it feel like I’ve just witnessed something I shouldn’t have,” Hermes says, groaning.
It’s easy to tell why, she thinks— wanting his attentions back after he’s shifted his gaze to look at Hermes and Dionysus. Because it was outlandish, a kiss from this self-restrained creature, a sign of something raw and unbridled inside him, something that she’s always known existed but hasn’t seen yet— and now that she’s felt it on her she is reminded of the deliciousness of witnessing the grotesque, reminded of mutants and monstrosities and is left wanting more.
“Because no one invited you to witness it,” Hades replies, coldly. But it bothers Hermes and Dionysus not the slightest, not with how they laugh with such genuine good nature that even Hades yields a smile when Dionysus says, thankfully with some color back in his face and no sickness on Hades’s floors, that he did great— just look at Persephone’s smile, then he placed four glasses and filled them with his wine in cheer, in celebration, for this blessed union.
He made good on his promise.
Hades allows himself to topple upon her for a second. Her giggling chest bears his weight before he rises again to place a kiss beneath her collarbone, and he hears her softly complaining about how, “scruffy,” his beard is.
She is flushed, and dare he say, thoroughly sated. So, “‘Scruffy,’ wasn't a problem five minutes ago, was it?” Hades asks.
It took only the right tug to undo the knot at her nape, and the dress tumbled down to her hips in seconds, barely after the door had closed behind them; then he picked her up, her dress hiked up and her legs around him, and he dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed. He called her a liar when he pressed his weight onto her because her gown wasn’t heavy the slightest.
“Not at all,” she responds about his beard, tugging his chin in good humor. Persephone tucks his hair behind his ears, and right then he wonders if there could exist anything as soft as she, anything as undeniably tender as the way she looks at him.
“I thought so. Your reactions left little room for doubt,” Hades says, remembering her grip on his hair while he teased and he teased until she cried, her desperate urging as she trembled on the very edge.
And as cocky as she acts around him, he knows of the coyness she hides; he’s seen it in the red of her ears when she’s embarrassed, he sees it now as she hides her lovely features behind her hands, and he saw it earlier in endearing gasps when he filled his mouth with her.
“Well, and you” she retorts, rising to sit on her legs after the blush eased. There are still flowers in her hair, and it flows down to cover her bare skin. “You’re much more cheerful during lovemaking than any other time— I’m sure I heard you laugh maybe twice, which is more than I’ve ever had the honor to hear from you all my life, King of the Dead.”
“I would say I laughed only once,” he deadpans, though in truth, he isn’t sure how many times he laughed. A few, he thought, because it came with ease when she’s around. He finds it amusing how her gratification rises from the laugher her smart mouth can draw from him, and his from undoing her so utterly that that smart mouth can’t save her anymore.
She smiles, and he can’t really read whether it is docile or devious, but when he reaches to touch her cheek she sighs, softly. “What else?” Hades asks because she’s been quiet long enough for him to realize that in her mind, she’s running over the things that she’s learned between their vows and now.
“You have a thing for getting bitten.”
“I do not have a thing for getting bitten,” he retorts, startled.
“You do,” she squeals in delight. “It’s the only thing I could do that pulls you so easily out of that control of yours! I have to take such pains to unravel you,” here, her tone drops as she comes closer for a kiss and tugs at his lower lip, but he doesn't let go, the dregs of his sanity barely held on to out of sheer stubbornness. Her mouth leaves his, trailing his throat instead, warm and smiling, and the crook of his neck, and no, he thinks, he can’t see the point of holding back anymore; so he flips her onto her back and grips her wrists, but right before a groan betrayed his control, Hades stills.
"How stupid do they have to be to realize that I know that they're behind the door," Hades muses abruptly, and Persephone gasps. He throws the covers onto her and gets up to the door, muttering that it was only now that they arrived, and unlocks it to find Hermes and Dionysus kneeling, frozen in place with suggestive smiles on their faces.
"We were just checking in to see how it went," Hermes says defensively. "Weren't sure you knew how to do it."
"It went well enough," he tells them, ignoring the suggestion.
"It sounded festive just now," Dionysus adds, so shameless that Persephone giggles from beneath the sheets.
“Leave,” Hades says, and slams shut the door in their faces.
The sun doesn't rise here, but he knows that whatever he tells Hermes and Dionysus, they'll 'spend the night,' in his courtyard of bones, under the sky made of ash and morbid death. They won't leave until they have their next meal; but he couldn't be bothered now, not with her awaiting on the mattress, finally his after she pried him out of his long-suffering grip on himself, how she took him and left him at a loss and speechless. And maybe he does feel like laughing at himself, feels a rumbling inside him threatening to push up his throat, but it comes out a deep, tired groan instead. She's not one to let a thing slip, though, so she curls up tighter to him and lethargically adds another count to her tally.