by Lianyu Tan
She was turning a corner when she almost ran into a young scribe, his arms overburdened with scrolls.
“Forgive me,” he stammered, dropping a scroll.
Persephone leaned down and picked it up for him. She caught a glimpse of its contents as she handed it back: tallies of the dead, organized by date of arrival. “It’s late,” she said, not without sympathy. “Is Hades keeping you up all night with work?”
The man’s face flushed a deep red, the same red as the acne he had not thought to erase from his self-image, now that he was dead. “The work is an honor,” he said, eyes downcast. “I bring news for Hades’ attention.”
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. “I found you first,” Persephone said. “Let’s walk together, and you can tell me on the way.”
The man quailed but did as he was told, speaking quickly and walking even more quickly. “The number of new arrivals has almost doubled since the same time last year,” he said.
Persephone frowned. “Is there a war?”
He shook his head.
They entered the dining hall together, but Hades was nowhere to be seen.
Persephone hailed a serving girl. “Where is your queen?” she asked.
“She has gone to the Plain of Judgment,” the girl said.
Persephone looked to the scribe. “Come on, then.”
The man had seemed somewhat relieved to find Hades gone, but now he turned to Persephone and gulped. “Horses make me nauseous.”
“We’ll just have to manage,” Persephone said.
She took a torch and went to the stables, all but dragging the scribe behind her, and borrowed a chariot. The man hugged his scrolls to his chest and hung onto the chariot rails, white-knuckled.
She found Hades on a small rise overlooking the Plain of Judgment. Persephone hopped out of the chariot whilst it was still moving, leaving the scribe to bring the horses to a complete stop, and walked over to where Hades was standing.
Hades did not turn to look at her as Persephone approached. She seemed small against the vast surroundings, the Tyrian purple of her chiton appearing almost black under the night sky. The wind pulled at her skirts and flickered the torch that Persephone held to light her way.
Persephone glanced down at the line of the dead below them. It was not just the very young and old, as was customary at this time of year, but whole families, including adults who looked to be in their prime. All showed some degree of emaciation, their hair falling out, cheeks sunken and hollow, their features lit by the torches they carried.
“A famine?” Persephone asked.
“I knew the numbers were unusually high,” Hades said, as though talking to herself. “I should have paid closer attention. The ranges were consistent with natural fluctuation. But now...”
“Queen Hades,” the scribe said, dropping to his knees a few steps behind them. “I’ve looked at the figures for the last few months, and the deaths keep increasing. The growth seems to be exponential.”
“What does that mean?” Persephone asked.
Hades turned to her at last, her eyes completely black from edge to edge. “It means someone up there is not doing her duty,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of affect.
Despite knowing she was not the target of Hades’ ire, Persephone trembled. She looked down again. There could be no mistaking it; these people had all been starving before they’d died. “There has to be some other explanation,” she said. “My mother would not abandon her duty, not when this is the result. Demeter knows that harvest quotas must be met—”
“Demeter is a selfish malakismeni, and she always has been!” Hades snapped.
Persephone gasped and pressed her fingertips to her lips in horror. Behind her, the scribe trembled on his knees, his forehead touching the ground.
Hades seemed to notice him for the first time. “You,” she said. “Come with me. I must send several missives tonight.”
The scribe scrambled to his feet, his head bobbing in agreement.
“What can I do to help?” Persephone asked.
Hades’ mouth twisted, the corners down-turned. “Talk to the dead. Confirm their story.”
“Of course,” Persephone said, grateful to have something to do. “There will be some other reason for this,” she added.
“We shall see.”
20
Not Wanted
The reasons were all the same, just as Hades had anticipated. Crops were failing, grain withering on the stem. Famished cattle collapsing in the fields, the flies thick over their bodies. Last year’s stores were long gone, and the price of food had jumped to astronomical heights.
There was nothing else to explain it, save that Demeter had abandoned her worshipers, heedless of their prayers and sacrifices. Persephone could not believe it. Her mother had never seemed so cruel as to look upon a starving child and deny them succor.
The following day, she sought out Hades in her study. It was a large, airy room connected to the library with high, small windows to permit natural light. The walls were lined with scrolls, but there was also ample space to relax on padded klinai.
Hades was not alone.
“Hermes!” Persephone cried upon seeing the golden-haired god. She ran to him and embraced him, clinging to his neck, her feet leaving the floor.
“Sweet sister,” he said, laughing and returning her embrace.
His hair smelled like meadow grass, grown beneath Helios’s watchful gaze. It brought tears to Persephone’s eyes, and she blinked them away.
“Has Hades been keeping you well?” Hermes asked, taking a step back and looking her over.
Hades was right there in the room, leaning against a table, her arms crossed. Her chiton of Tyrian purple seemed rumpled as though she’d slept in it, or perhaps not slept at all.
“Yes, I am quite well,” Persephone said. “What news do you bring of my mother?”
Hermes sighed. He glanced at Hades from beneath his long lashes. “Perhaps now is not the time—”
“More humans die every day,” Hades said, sounding almost bored. “A season ago was the time, but as we cannot have that, then today must suffice.”
“Yes. Well. Demeter sends her regards—”
Hades scoffed, rolling her eyes skyward.
“—and demands the safe return of her daughter. She has regretfully informed Zeus that she will not resume her duties until Persephone is under her care,” Hermes said.
“Can she do that?” Persephone asked. “Give up everything, just like that?”
“If your father cannot command her to be sensible, then I suppose yes,” Hades said, examining her nails.
“All the gods and goddesses have begged her to come to her senses,” Hermes said. “We are all losing followers, more day by day.”
“And my fields are swelling with shades. The queues for judgment are becoming unmanageable,” Hades said. “What if I were to reject them all, send them pouring back into the mortal world? Demeter is not the only one among us who could bring civilization to ruin.”
Persephone’s face paled. “But you would never.”
“I am sorely tempted,” Hades snapped.
“I brought a witness.” Hermes gestured toward the door. “If you’d permit me.”
“Persephone has already questioned the dead,” Hades said.
“All the same. I believe you should hear this for yourself.”
At Hades’ nod, Hermes went to the door and admitted a mortal, one of the newly dead. He had the brightness of one who still thought himself among the living, and though his frame was gaunt, his clothes were fine and trimmed with embroidery.
At Hermes’ prodding, he walked before them and fell to his knees, bowing his head. “O great Hades, Host of Many, Savior of the Dead—”
“On with it,” Hades said.
The man bit his lip. “O Queen, my name is Chalcodon. I was the magistrate of Oropus. When the harvests failed last year, we were penitent. We sacrificed our best steers and goats in
Demeter’s name; we cleaned her temples and had the priests sprinkle sacred water over the barren earth. Everyone went hungry that year, but Poseidon took pity upon us and filled our nets, and we had enough.”
Persephone glanced at Hades. Her expression betrayed nothing, and she gestured for Chalcodon to continue.
“This summer has been cruel and scorching. Scarcely half our fields had sprouted, and what grew soon withered beneath the intensity of the blazing heat. We struggled to find enough pasture for our flocks and were forced to slaughter many before their time. My daughters’ children were stillborn and tiny, stunted by their mothers’ hunger.”
Chalcodon paused to take a breath, his eyes glimmering. “We still pray to Demeter, though many say she has abandoned us, but there is nothing left to sacrifice. People clash in the street over a scrap of flour, and even the rats have abandoned our cities, hunted and slain by starving families. Order has collapsed. When a man’s wages cannot feed one person, let alone six, what point is there in work? We must have sustenance,” Chalcodon said, wringing his hands. “Please, O Queen. It is too late for me, but perhaps the rest in my city can still be saved.”
Silence reigned. Chalcodon kept his gaze meekly downcast, his hands on his knees trembling from their combined divine presence.
“I have heard your words,” Hades said. “You may go.”
Chalcodon gratefully climbed to his feet and left, the door creaking shut behind him.
“You see why you must concede,” Hermes said.
“Me? Why should I do anything?” Hades asked. “I have not abandoned all sense of duty, of mercy. I have done nothing wrong.”
“One of you must yield,” Hermes said. “For all our sakes.”
Hades stood very still, save for a muscle twitching under her left eye. Then she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. “You must be tired after your journey. Go avail yourself of my hospitality and rest. My answer will be with you on the morrow.”
Hermes shifted from foot to foot, the wings on his sandals fluttering. “Zeus expected me to return this evening—”
“Zeus can wait.”
“As you say.” He nodded to Hades. “Little sister,” he said by way of parting to Persephone, and then left, closing the door behind him.
As soon as his footsteps receded in the distance, Hades took something from her belt and threw it at the door. It all happened so quickly that Persephone jumped at the thud. The door sprouted the hilt of Hades’ dagger at head height, the metal still quivering.
“Damn him. Damn your mother and damn Zeus for letting her indulge in her worst despotic fantasies!”
Persephone’s first instinct was to deny it, but she could not. Not after meeting with the dead, not after seeing their tiny babes in their arms—premature, sickly before their time. The adults and older children might remake their images—appearance was malleable among the dead—but the infants? What would happen to them? Would they ever age?
Demeter would see reason. She had to.
Hades ran a hand over her braids, mussing them. She glanced at Persephone, as if surprised to find her still there, and jerked her chin toward a kline. “Sit down. We must discuss your mother.”
“I can do so on my feet—”
“Sit. Down.”
Persephone sat on the edge of the kline, her back rigid.
Hades remained standing. “Tell me about Demeter,” she said.
“She’s the goddess of the harvest, of fertility—”
“That is common knowledge. What was she like as a mother? How does she treat her human subjects?”
Persephone fought for something to say. “She looked after me when I was young. She doesn’t like soft cheeses. I’ve never seen her harm a human.” She bit her lower lip. “She is my mother. You must know her as a peer.”
“Demeter has many faults, but I never once thought she would turn her back on her own progeny.”
“She did not neglect me.”
“Then why was Stephanus the first person to teach you your letters? Why is your swordsmanship lacking, your mathematics dire, and your knowledge of history non-existent?”
Persephone’s cheeks flushed to hear herself described in such a manner. “It’s not her fault. I’m simply a poor student.”
“Not her fault!” Hades slammed her fist on the table, making Persephone jump. “It is the duty of the parent to prepare their child for the brutality of the world we find ourselves in. And you are not a poor student. If you would take anything from your time here, remember that the world of knowledge lies at your feet. And you are more than capable of grasping it.”
Persephone fiddled with the fraying edge of her chiton. “She’s always busy,” she said in a faint whisper.
Hades looked down at her, studying her expression. “She frightens you, that is plain to see.”
Persephone blanched.
Hades paced across the rug, then back again, restless. “I always thought—Zeus claimed—I was wrong, it seems,” she said, her face sour. She stopped pacing, hands clasped behind her back, and looked again at Persephone. “You were not wanted, is that so? But a goddess of fertility can hardly deny the seed forced upon her.”
Persephone squeezed her hands tight in her lap and looked down at them, willing herself not to cry.
“Yes,” Hades said to herself with more confidence. “That would explain her indifference. But it is wrong to blame a child for the sins of the father.”
“I wasn’t an easy child—”
“Stop making excuses for her!”
Persephone flinched.
Hades looked at her and sighed, rubbing her hand across her face. “Forgive my tone,” she said, more quietly. “It is not your fault—neither your upbringing, nor the situation we find ourselves in. The latter fault lies with me. I should not have underestimated Demeter.” She briefly pressed her knuckles against her lips before speaking again. “She has ever been a selfish one. Perhaps you know that.”
“She takes pains that others won’t see,” Persephone said quietly, fighting against every survival instinct that warned her not to speak ill of Demeter.
“Yes. I believe she hates me because I remember a time when she was imperfect.” Hades clasped her hands behind her back again, her gaze distant. “At the height of the Titanomachy, it seemed certain that we—the gods—would lose.”
It had been before Persephone’s time, but every child knew about the War of the Titans. “What did she do?”
“I caught her preparing to broker a deal with the Titans that would save her own skin but doom the rest of the gods. If Zeus had found out, she would have been cast down—chained in Tartarus, or worse.”
“You kept her secret.”
“I chose to believe that she was sorry. That she repented. I never warned the others of her erstwhile treachery.” Hades sighed. “We all make mistakes, after all.” She stared pensively into the distance. “If she saw you. If you... returned to her. Would she relent?”
Persephone didn’t know whether to hope, the strain of her yearning an ache in her chest. “It would mean she’d won. She likes that. She would be magnanimous in victory.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Persephone said with more conviction than she felt. “What should we do? Perhaps if she knew I was safe, she would relent. We could send a token—”
“These deaths demand more than a token,” Hades said. She went to the door and pulled out her dagger, sending chips of wood flying. She looked down at the blade, turning it over and over between her fingers. “Go. Pack your things.”
“You—you’d truly send me back?” Persephone whispered.
Hades looked up at her. “All your wishes have come true,” she said dryly. The dagger sketched a short arc in the air as she gestured. “I shall ask Hermes to deliver you to Zeus, so that he might mediate your return. He sanctioned our union and is obliged to respect it, else be seen as an oath-breaker. You should not meet with Demeter unaccompanied.”
Persepho
ne stared at her, open-mouthed. This was what she’d wanted. What she’d begged of Hades, what she’d dreamed of for so long.
So why did it feel like the ground was collapsing beneath her feet?
She ran up to Hades and embraced her, burying her face into Hades’ neck. Hades remained still, not moving to touch Persephone of her own accord.
Persephone drew back, her hands on Hades’ shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered, tears in her eyes, then turned and fled before Hades could change her mind, before Persephone could let her own doubts overwhelm her.
Home. She was going home.
21
As My Wife
There was not much for Persephone to pack, in truth. She visited her grove, touching the trunk of each tree as she passed by. It seemed odd to think that this could be the last time she walked this path, felt this electric hum in the air, the ringing in her ears from the song of the green ghosts all around her. It had never been this intense in the overworld, not when she’d had to share some of her duties with Demeter and all the other minor gods and goddesses of the land.
When she came to the end of the grove, she turned back and plucked a single fruit from the nearest tree. She took it with her to the palace and set it aside with her other belongings.
She folded some spare clothes in a pile, then placed on it her wax tablet and stylus, a few skin creams and grooming implements, and the pomegranate she’d saved from her grove. She wrapped all of her things into a neat bundle and tied them off with a belt, before sitting beside it on the bed and looking around herself.
There were some things she would miss. And she would always be grateful to Hades for introducing her to the written word—and for granting Persephone her own land and the right to pronounce judgment. She’d learned more in the last year than she’d had in the previous century above ground.