by Lianyu Tan
It seemed like the underworld had emptied itself to attend her wedding. There were not enough seats for all of them, and so people crowded in every nook and cranny of the room, some even watching from the rafters.
Most were formed in the image of gods and humans, but some were curious indeed, with wings like bats, or a crown of snakes instead of hair. Persephone recognized no one—none save her bride, whom she detested most in all the world.
Hades waited at the furthermost end of the Great Hall, standing beside an altar. She wore a chiton of pure white, held fast against her body by crisscrossing ties encrusted with sapphires. Her black hair was held back by a myrtle wreath made of gold, matching a single chain that adorned her throat.
Her eyes were fixed on Persephone, but Persephone could not watch her as she approached. Instead, she looked past Hades. Standing beside her was a tall god, broad-shouldered, with a pair of great, feathery wings at his back.
Persephone walked slowly, as a mortal walking to her gallows, but soon enough she was at Hades’ side. An unseen musician ceased strumming their lyre, though she had not noticed the music until it had stopped.
“Friends and family, we are gathered here today to witness my marriage to the beautiful Persephone, daughter of Zeus and Demeter,” Hades said.
Persephone was astonished when the crowd cheered, as if they were attending a comedy and not a solemn act of matrimony. Someone even called out, “It’s about time!” to which Hades only laughed, instead of striking down the person who’d dared speak, as Ares might have done.
“Yes, you have all been very patient, but the wait is over! Now, you shall have another queen truly worthy of your devotion.”
The crowd roared with approval, and Persephone’s stomach fell. Did no one see her for what she was—a captive and not a willing participant in all of this merrymaking? She looked at those around her, trying to meet their eyes, but no one seemed to see the despair she felt.
“As my wedding gift to the mortals, though they may not know it, while Thanatos is present with us here, no one born of woman will join our ranks tonight,” Hades said. She gestured to the god standing behind her as she spoke, and Persephone recognized him now for what he was—the personification of death, though he looked hale as anyone. He had a pleasant though utterly forgettable face, but when he looked at Persephone, she thought perhaps he might understand her plight.
“Help me,” she mouthed from beneath her veil, but his placid expression did not change. She would find no mercy there.
“May I have your hand?” Hades asked.
With all eyes upon her, Persephone did as she was bidden. Hades turned her palm upward, then released her, turning her own hand the same way. Before Persephone could cry out, Thanatos took a blade and sliced both their palms in a diagonal line, starting between the thumb and forefinger and angling down toward the wrist.
Hades grabbed her hand, locking their fingers together, and the golden ichor spilling from their veins dripped as one over the altar.
Thanatos sheathed his blade and wrapped a cord over and across their interlocked hands. Hades’ grip did not lessen even as the cord ensured that Persephone could not have freed herself. Her palm stung, but that was nothing compared to the way that Hades’ gaze seemed to pierce right through her, despite the veil.
“This is not how we do things on the surface,” Persephone said.
“There will be time enough for you to learn all our customs,” Hades said.
“Is it your custom to abduct brides without a blessing?” She had raised her voice, but she didn’t care who heard her. Hades seemed immune to censure, in any case.
“This wedding was blessed,” Hades said.
“By whom? Not Demeter!”
“By your father.”
Persephone’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to deny it, to call Hades a liar, but she could feel deep in her bones that she was telling the truth.
“What I have joined here today, let no god nor goddess tear apart,” Thanatos said. He unbound the cord joining them, but Hades did not release her straight away.
“I assure you that you will be well loved here, by my subjects, and most of all, by me.”
Persephone wrenched her hand away. Already, the gash was closing, but the cut stung worse than a superficial wound.
“I present to you my wife,” Hades said and lifted Persephone’s veil, draping it back so that it covered her stephane and the crown of her head. Stripped of her meager defense, Persephone flinched to feel the night air against her bare skin and glanced away as Hades studied her.
“Dearest,” Hades said. “You are a vision, but something is missing.” Hades unclasped the necklace she was wearing and placed it on Persephone. The metal was warm from Hades’ skin, and it sat like a noose above her collarbone.
Hades’ subjects crowded around them, offering their congratulations. Persephone was forced to stand beside Hades, blank-faced and unsmiling, as she went over things in her head. Had Demeter known of this? Surely not. But why had she counseled Persephone to stay away from Hades? Was it just a mother’s instinct?
And if Zeus had blessed this union, would anyone come for her? Would they dare? To do so was to risk his wrath, and few gods were willing to chance that. Not for Persephone’s sake, in any case.
Thanatos requested all guests to take their seats, many spilling out into the courtyards, then he departed with some final, private words to Hades. Persephone supposed this meant that mortals would begin dying again, their brief reprieve over.
She was seated beside Hades and not with her guests as she had hoped. Very soon servants trudged into the Great Hall, carrying great platters of food, steaming trays and baskets of loaves. The appealing scents mingled in the air, and Persephone’s throat moistened itself in anticipation.
Her hunger became worse when the food was placed directly in front of her. She sat still as a statue, as if moving would invite weakness and give her leave to succumb to her appetite.
Hades glanced at her empty plate. “Is there something else you would prefer from the kitchens?”
Persephone shook her head.
“Xenia tells me you have fasted all day. Surely you must be hungry?”
Persephone’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. Her cheeks colored, but she kept her lips firmly pressed together.
Hades frowned. “Speak to me, wife.”
A muscle ticked in Persephone’s cheek. “You have no right to call me that.”
“Let us not fight over words on this blessed day. Persephone, then. Are you so determined to refuse my hospitality?”
“I don’t wish to stay here. You know that!” Persephone said, trying not to watch all of the diners digging into their food with gusto.
“You have not eaten since your arrival?” Hades asked, her words clipped.
Persephone shook her head. She hadn’t dared. One sip and it would bind her here forever.
Hades gestured at the spread before them. “Nothing at our table has been grown here. You may partake of it freely.” She beckoned a servant to her side. “Bring me that plate,” she said, pointing at a platter laden with figs on another table.
The servant came back and set the plate down. Hades took a fig from the new plate and a fig from another plate already on their table. She hid them both behind her back for a moment and then held out her palms, each with a fig upon it.
“Which one is from the surface?” she asked.
Persephone shook her head. She would sit through this farce, but she needn’t play these games.
“Humor me.”
Biting back a sigh, Persephone touched both figs in turn. One of them roused nothing within her. But the other evoked clear skies, torrential rain, and the fragrance of freshly dug earth. She pressed her hands over her mouth, trying hard not to cry.
Hades took that fig and with her knife destemmed it and cut it into segments, placing them upon Persephone’s plate. “Please, eat.”
Persephone popped a s
lice into her mouth, and the juice exploded on her tongue. She chewed slowly and then devoured the rest of it.
She hadn’t realized that fruit grown from the underworld’s soil would feel different to her senses. But why wouldn’t it? Never feeling the sun, not following the natural order of the seasons. Of course it was bound to be different.
She picked up another of the surface-grown fruits, and with her other hand she held the fig from the other table. They were both firm and rich in color. She could not tell the difference between them simply by looking at them.
Hades watched her. “Our marriage places you under my protection and proves to the other gods that you are mine. It could not be delayed any longer. But binding yourself to the underworld is a choice you will make for me and only for me.”
What kind of choice was that? “I’ll never taste of your food, nor drink your wine,” Persephone said.
A small smile played about Hades’ lips. “We shall see.”
Persephone could not believe her arrogance. She turned her attention away from Hades before she could lose her temper. She drank her fill of water next, easing her dry throat, then sampled each dish before her, forcing herself to chew slowly to avoid overwhelming her empty stomach. Hades slipped a few choice morsels onto her plate and the finest garnishes, and Persephone was not so proud that she would leave them uneaten.
Hades was a different goddess in the underworld, more relaxed than she’d even been above ground. She chatted to her guests, jested with them, her pale cheeks flushed with color and her lips curved into a smile more often than not.
Her pleasant countenance hid a dark heart. Persephone could not forget the way she’d been manhandled in the overworld, nor the way Hades had humiliated her the other night and enjoyed it, no less. Was she as bad as Zeus, with his endless philandering? Persephone ought to hope that was the case, as it would mean that Hades would pay her less mind. But she didn’t think she would be so fortunate. Knowing how gods loved gossip, she would’ve heard rumors.
As the night wore on, a steady stream of well-wishers approached their table. Hades introduced each of them in turn, with their name, function, and a few words about their person.
Persephone stared at them in silence, her face expressionless before their ingratiating smiles and pithy words. She would form no ties here, cultivate no friendships. She wanted nothing of substance from the underworld, save for an exit.
During a lull in the flow of visitors, Persephone took the opportunity to have some of her nagging questions answered, though she misliked her chances of getting an answer she wanted.
“Why did you unlock my door the other night? Was it simply for sport?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
Hades lowered a chalice from her lips and set it on the table before speaking. “I cannot deny it was an enjoyable side effect.”
“You humiliated me! Is that how you want your consort to be remembered?”
Hades ran her finger along the rim of her chalice. “No. And no one of importance saw you.” She raised her eyes, meeting Persephone’s. “You needed to see how futile it was.”
“I’ll never stop trying to escape you,” Persephone said.
“Then you are bound to be disappointed.”
Hades’ confidence, her conceit, was just as bad as any god’s and not at all becoming on someone of the gentler sex. Persephone stabbed a morsel on her plate with her knife, imagining it to be Hades’ face.
A bard began a series of songs praising her virtues and Hades’, sensationalized in the way of lyric poets and highly inaccurate. Persephone stared longingly at her knife. If she were mortal, she would’ve had some semblance of choice over her own destiny. Now even that was denied to her.
“Would you care to dance?” Hades asked.
Persephone shook her head. She could think of nothing less suited to her mood.
Hades stood, joining the rest of the assembled dancers midway through a song. They parted to admit her, their eyes shining with honor to have their queen beside them.
She danced well enough, a bright star in her white chiton amidst her guests’ peacock-like finery. Persephone could not bear to watch. She left the table and slipped out of the hall into the adjoining courtyard.
Once she was outside, she found that the cavernous sky, bereft of stars, did nothing for her nerves. She lurched toward the nearest planter and vomited up half her dinner, clutching the sides of the planter with both hands to steady herself.
“Is there anything I can do to help you, mistress? More water?”
Persephone wiped her face with the back of her hand and turned to find Xenia shadowing her. “I’m fine,” Persephone said.
“Of course,” Xenia said. “Every bride is nervous.”
“I’m not every bride!”
“And the Ruler of Many will not be any old boorish groom.”
Persephone laughed. “How do you know that?”
“I would trust her with my own daughter.”
It occurred to Persephone that she knew nothing of the woman’s life before her death. “You have children?”
“Four who lived to maturity, praise the gods. And many descendants after them.”
“You’re not my mother,” Persephone said.
“Of course not. I would never dream to put myself beside the generous Demeter. But if I may offer you some comfort whilst you are bereft a mother’s counsel, then I will do whatever is in my power to guide you.”
Persephone placed a hand over her throbbing forehead. “You can’t help me. No one here can, except the one who won’t.”
If she looked at Xenia now, she would cry, and so she stared instead at the nearest tree, an ornamental fig. Its leaves were smooth and soothed her fingers, though they did not respond to her touch as they ought to do.
A servant came to them. “Beg pardon, but Queen Hades has requested your presence.”
A chill fell upon Persephone. She was certain that if she refused to go, someone would be forced to drag her, and she had no desire to cause such a scene.
She followed the servant back inside the hall. Hades looked slightly more disheveled than before, her color high, strands of her hair loosened from dancing. She turned as Persephone entered and smiled.
“Time for you to depart,” Hades said. She held out her hand, and after a moment, Persephone took it, wincing as the movement caused the newly healed skin on her palm to stretch.
Hades cleared her throat, and a hush fell over the hall. “Friends, thank you for your company this evening. We must now depart”—she was forced to pause until the snickers died down—“but please, continue to enjoy yourselves as long as the night permits. Eat, drink, and celebrate the dawning of a new age!”
The crowd cheered, warm with inebriation.
Hades raised Persephone’s hand to her lips and kissed her knuckles. “I will see you anon.” She released her and turned to talk with a few last well-wishers eager to catch her on her way out of the hall.
Xenia took Persephone’s arm in her stead. “Come with me,” she said.
There was to be no procession, then, no ritual blessings. At least there would not be the scandal of someone else holding a torch in her mother’s place. Persephone supposed she ought to be thankful for small mercies, but she could not find it within herself to feel gratitude. She walked with Xenia beside her, and her heart filled with dread.
9
The Marriage Bed
Xenia and another two girls herded Persephone to her room, sitting her down at her dressing table and working to undo the monstrosity of her coiffure. Many hands disentangled the small pins from her hair, inevitably tugging a little too hard at the braids when they snagged. Her scalp tingled as the tension eased, and she sighed with relief.
Once all the ornaments were gone, a girl combed out her hair. The chiton was next to go, though she was somewhat more ambivalent about taking it off. It was a garment of such rare beauty, she missed admiring the shimmer of the weave, desp
ite its weight and the discomfort it caused her. Nevertheless, she changed into a plain white chiton, smoothing her hands over the reddened marks where the wedding garment had cinched in.
“Is there anything else you need?” Xenia asked her.
Persephone shook her head, and Xenia and all the servants departed. She sat on the bed and swung her legs over the side, for once at a loss as to what to do with herself. She hadn’t heard Xenia lock the door this time.
Tempting as it was to run, she had no place to go and no desire to repeat the events of the previous night. Hades wouldn’t be satisfied with just a taste this time, and tonight with the wedding feast and resulting guests, the halls would not be so empty if she decided to humiliate Persephone for trying to escape.
Her stomach felt unsettled. It would be easy to blame it on the rich food, but it was more the thought of what was yet to come. If only she hadn’t been so captivated by that narcissus! Would she now be safe in her mother’s chambers and not preparing to surrender her maidenhead?
Whatever the answer, it couldn’t help her. Persephone crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, trying not to think of all the could-have-beens. Avoiding the thought of something only made it worse, and so her mind stepped around in circles until she finally fell asleep.
She woke to find a weight pulling down the other side of the bed. She opened her eyes to find Hades sitting next to her, her face golden in the candlelight. She was still wearing her wedding chiton, though she had removed the ornate belt. As Persephone watched, Hades reached up and withdrew a single long pin from her bun. Her hair tumbled loose, falling down to frame her face.
“I would say you sleep like the dead, but the dead are frequently unable to rest. Is that a talent of yours?” Hades asked.
Persephone stiffened. Her mind was still foggy from waking as she shook off the last few remnants of her slumber. “I’ve always been a deep sleeper.”
“I would not call that ‘sleep.’”
Wasn’t it the same for everyone? Persephone couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been the dreaming earth, calling her to its welcoming, protective embrace. She shrugged, glancing away. “From what people say of your schedule, you could use a little rest yourself.”
