Captive in the Underworld

by Lianyu Tan

  The dawn could not come quickly enough, but at last, pale bands of light crept across the floor. She opened the window shutters and tossed her sandals outside. She swung herself over the ledge, landing softly on her feet, her waterskin and the empty bowl tucked under one arm. Turning, she shut the window once more so nothing would look suspicious from the outside.

  There were a few servants around but none close by. She put on her sandals, draped her epiblema over her hair, and kept her eyes lowered, walking quickly toward the stables.

  The horses turned their heads as she entered, their eyes deep and liquid in the gray morning light. A hand touched her shoulder, and she almost screamed.

  Ismaros wrapped his hand around her mouth. Persephone stiffened but forced herself to relax when she saw it was him.

  “Begging your pardon,” he whispered, releasing her.

  Her heartbeat seemed like it ought to give them away, it was so loud. “You startled me.”

  “The wagon is ready.” Ismaros led her to the side of the stables, where he had hitched up a pair of horses to a wagon. “How do you mean to distract Cerberus?”

  Persephone showed him her waterskin and bowl. “This skin contains broth along with Lethe’s water,” she said. “Offer this to him, and he will forget his purpose.”

  Ismaros gravely took the items from her. “A wise choice,” he said. Next, he drew back a cloth, revealing a large storage chest nestled next to several amphora.

  “In there?” Persephone asked. Small spaces did not suit her.

  “It won’t be for long.” Ismaros unclasped the lid of the chest and opened it.

  Persephone climbed onto the wagon and lowered herself into the box. She had to lie sideways in it, her knees folded next to her shoulders. Stray bits of hay lined the bottom of the chest, perhaps used as packing material for whatever had been transported previously. The tough fibers tickled her neck, and she longed for her soft and comfortable bed lined with furs in Hades’ palace.

  “Not a word from now on, Lady Persephone,” Ismaros whispered and lowered the lid, plunging her into darkness.

  Her breathing sounded too loud in the box. She heard Ismaros climbing onto the wagon and taking the driver’s seat, then flicking the reins. The horses began to move, and Persephone was jostled as the wheels ran over a bumpy patch of ground.

  She gritted her teeth, taking a deep breath. This was temporary. She hugged her knees to her chest, wincing as every bump rattled the amphora in the wagon.

  Ismaros drove for some time, quietly whistling to himself. Persephone wondered where she’d seen his face before. What had her mother promised him in exchange for her safe return?

  Ismaros rapped on the chest. “We near Cerberus,” he said.

  The wagon slowed to a halt, and she felt it shift as Ismaros hopped out. Cerberus growled, low in his throats.

  Ismaros muttered something indistinctly. Persephone strained to hear, distracted by the sound of her own breathing.

  Cerberus howled in triplicate, a tortured, lonely sound. The wagon rocked again as Ismaros leapt aboard, and he snapped the reins, the horses hurtling into a gallop.

  Persephone rapped on the inside of the lid. “What happened?”

  “He drank,” Ismaros said, sounding breathless. “But that noise! He could have woken half the palace.”

  Their wild pace did nothing for Persephone’s stomach, as she was jostled from every side in her tiny prison. She bit her lip and reminded herself it would all be worth it; they had to maintain their lead. A part of her could not fail to pity Cerberus and rue her hand in the betrayal. With luck, the hound had not suffered.

  They maintained a frantic pace for some time, but eventually the wagon began to slow and then ground to a stop. Persephone hugged herself tighter. There was no need to panic.

  She heard Ismaros talking, though she could not make out the words, and another man answering. Charon? But no, they would not be using that crossing.

  Persephone pushed up on the lid of the chest, raising it by a finger’s width. Ismaros had covered it again with a cloth, and through the fabric she could see only vague shadows.

  “You promised to wait by the dock,” Ismaros said.

  “What can I say, Theseus? I could not allow you to assume all the danger. And the glory,” said the other man.

  What glory? And why had he used that other name—Theseus?

  She heard the wagon boards creak. It had to be the other man, stepping aboard. Ismaros—Theseus—had not told her of an accomplice. She did not much like being surprised.

  “Pirithous, don’t,” Theseus said.

  The cloth was drawn from the chest, and the lid swung open. Persephone shielded her eyes from the morning light, covering her face with her hands.

  “I apologize for the indignity, but you should be safe to rise now. I saw none on my journey here.” A man hovered over her, clean-shaven with bright brown eyes set in a weathered face. Pirithous, she assumed. Behind him was the gray-brown, cavernous sky of the underworld, glowing with its approximation of daylight. Its emptiness seemed to mock her, being both of Gaia's earth and something completely other. She’d hoped, however foolishly, that she’d be met with pale blue vistas the next she raised her eyes to the aether.

  She took Pirithous’s offered hand and climbed out of the box, glancing around herself. She felt rather than saw the dark blight of Tartarus in the near distance. “We are not safe here.”

  Theseus snapped the reins, and the wagon began to move once more. “We must keep our pace.”

  “You lied about your name,” Persephone said. She sat on the box that had once housed her, epiblema pulled tight around her shoulders, looking behind them for signs of pursuit. “What else have you lied about?”

  Theseus glanced briefly at her over his shoulder. “I apologize for the small deception. It was necessary to secure your co-operation.”

  A shiver ran down Persephone’s spine, and her fingers tightened in the wool of her epiblema. She opened her mouth to speak, but Pirithous interrupted her.

  “You have your mother’s eyes,” Pirithous said.

  “Excuse me?” Persephone turned and found Pirithous sitting closer to her than decency would allow. He was staring at her, not as a mortal might revere a god but with the same hunger she’d so often seen in Hades’ eyes.

  Persephone slid across the seat until the neck of an amphora jabbed into her side. “Who are you?”

  “A child of Zeus, like yourself. King of the Lapiths of Thessaly,” said Pirithous.

  She looked between him and Theseus, seated on the driver’s bench. “My mother sent you to fetch me,” she said, as if by her speech she would make it true.

  Theseus glanced back at his friend, eyes narrowed. A warning.

  “In a sense,” Pirithous said. He was a very poor liar.

  Persephone leaned forward and grabbed the back of Theseus’s chiton. “Stop the wagon.”

  Instead of obeying her, Theseus used a crop on the horses and the wagon lurched forward, hurling her off-balance. Pirithous tossed the blanket over her, throwing her into darkness as he grabbed her. He wrangled Persephone back into the storage box, pushing her to the bottom before slamming it shut.

  Persephone tore at the blanket, bruising her elbows and knees as she struggled to uncover her head. When that was done, she pounded at the lid. “Let me out!” she screamed, but it would not budge. He had to be sitting on it.

  Persephone screamed again in wordless fury. There was no one around to hear her, and even if they did, they would most likely think her cries were those of the unquiet dead.

  “Please, don’t be aggrieved,” Pirithous said. “When we are wed—”

  What?

  “—I will lavish upon you the finest of silks, jewels, whatever you desire.”

  “What I desire is to choose for myself!”

  He said something, inaudibly. She hammered at the lid once more, splinters lodging in her fingers for her efforts.

  It was not
a particularly hard wood—spruce, grown in the underworld. Persephone lay back in her box, forcing herself to breathe slowly. Her throat was raw. Too late, she remembered where she’d seen Theseus’s face. Athenians held his image in high regard. Hadn’t he killed some monster or other? He was one of Poseidon’s.

  So. Both of them were demigods. Heroes. Who else would be foolish enough to venture into the underworld alive?

  The wagon surged forward, tossing Persephone against the side of the box. They were heading downhill, quickly. How close were they to the great river Oceanus? She banged on the lid, and this time she heard Pirithous speak, so softly she had to strain to make out his words over the sound of the horses and wagon wheels.

  “...My wife died, so long ago now. Theseus and I pledged we would remarry only the most beautiful of Zeus’s daughters. We have traveled far to find you.”

  “The underworld is not meant for mortals,” Persephone said.

  “No. That is why we will not overstay our welcome.”

  It had only been a few minutes, but already she hated his voice, as greasy as an oiled pankratiast. She would kill him before she had to listen to that for more than a day.

  Persephone leaned her forehead against her arm, closing her eyes to stave off a rising tide of nausea. “Hades will not let you go.”

  At that, Pirithous laughed, sending a chill down Persephone’s spine at the blasphemy. “Hades is the weakest of the ruling gods. She is no match for her brothers, nor her brother’s sons.”

  “Because she is a goddess and not a god?”

  “Of course,” Pirithous said. The lid of the box creaked, as if he was shifting his weight. “Kronos should have had three sons, not two. Hades defies her feminine nature by insisting to rule without a king by her side. The underworld will always be the weakest domain because of it.”

  Persephone touched the chain around her neck, which she had tried so hard to remove. The warm metal cut into her fingertips. “Hades did not choose a king. She chose me.”

  Pirithous laughed again. She hated him more and more with each passing moment. “She chose well, I’ll grant her that. But a female could never hold you, sweet Persephone. You were destined for greater things.”

  A depression in the road made the wagon dip for an instant, and Persephone banged her head on the side of the box. She groaned, reaching up and finding her forehead wet. “You consider yourself greater than Hades?”

  “As a husband, yes. At least I meet the minimum requirements.”

  “You reach above your station.”

  “I am a king.”

  “I will grind your bones to dust!” Persephone yelled, slamming her fists against the lid.

  Pirithous laughed.

  She had never asked a plant to kill for her before, but when they reached the overworld, her powers would return in full. Pirithous had no hope of holding her; this entire venture had been doomed before its beginning.

  Her leg started to cramp, sending shooting pains up her spine. She flexed her foot as best she could.

  She had been so stupid to assume they were Demeter’s, simply because they had offered her freedom. She was too quick to jump for the nearest branch, not seeing the dangers beneath, waiting for her to fall.

  Persephone heard shouting. The wagon moved from left to right, as if Theseus were driving it in a zigzag pattern. The movement flung Persephone around, and she cried out.

  For a dizzying moment, she felt herself tossed in free fall, but then the box struck solid ground, and she was thrown against one side. She heard amphora shattering around her.

  Her ears rang, and she tasted ichor. She must have bitten her tongue. At least everything had stopped moving, though she had lost track of which part of the box was up or down.

  The box moved again, and Persephone yelped, falling once more to one side. The lid swung open, letting in a sliver of daylight.

  Persephone reached for it, and her fingers touched grass. With renewed strength, she crawled toward the light.

  Once she was free of the box, she climbed to her feet, blinking in the light. Something rolled toward her, and she glanced down to see a severed head, stopping just shy of her foot.

  Persephone screamed at the sight of Pirithous’s glassy eyes, almost falling as she staggered back against the box in her haste to get away.

  “A wedding gift, for my lady wife.”

  Persephone tore her gaze away from Pirithous to see Hades standing before her, wearing a black chiton soaked through with blood all down the front, clinging wetly against her body. More blood coated the side of her face. She looked as vengeful as any of the Erinyes, her gaze haunting. She must have left the palace in a hurry, without donning any armor.

  Hades beckoned her with a crimson hand. “Come here.”

  Persephone looked down at Pirithous again. There was so much blood, soaking into the grass around them. The soil of a battlefield was always enriched by the life spilled upon it.

  She went to Hades’ side, although her steps were halting. She could not bear to look at her.

  “Did they hurt you?” Hades asked.

  Persephone shook her head, then winced as the movement reminded her of how much she ached after having been trapped for so long. “I’m fine. You’re the one who’s injured,” she said, glancing at a cut on Hades’ arm.

  “The ichor has spilled from your veins,” Hades said. She touched Persephone’s forehead, where it had matted her hair.

  Persephone flinched. “I can’t feel it.”

  Hades’ voice grew cooler. “I see. We had best return. Can you walk?”

  Persephone nodded.

  Around them lay the wreckage of the wagon. The horses must have become loose at some point. The wagon was overturned, its contents spilled around in an arc, pieces of broken pottery scattered everywhere.

  Hades held her sword by her side. Mortal blood ran down its length, dripping onto the grass. Persephone felt each drop striking the earth as if they were falling upon her own skin. Hades pulled out a cloth and dried her sword before sheathing it at her hip.

  They were not alone. Other members of Hades’ retinue had arrived with her, helping to lead the horses away or to salvage what had fallen from the wagon.

  Two women spread a clean sheet over a pair of bodies, blood spreading quickly through the fabric like strange flowers blossoming.

  Persephone stepped a little closer to Hades. “Is Theseus dead?” she asked.

  Hades looked at the bodies. “Of course. Their lives were forfeit the moment they entered my realm.” She led Persephone to her chariot, and they set off immediately without waiting for the servants to be done with their grisly task.

  Persephone looked over her shoulder, at the light glinting off the blue water of Oceanus. They had not been too far from the boundaries of the underworld. A little more time and she could have reached the surface.

  But at what cost?

  She glanced at the goddess beside her. Hades stared straight ahead, the reins held loosely in her hands. She barely needed to steer; the horses knew the way. Her face was grim, a muscle in her cheek twitching occasionally.

  “Hades? Thank you... for saving me.”

  Hades glanced at Persephone, her gaze dark. “Your gratitude is noted.”

  They traveled the rest of the way in silence.

  15

  Name Me

  It took a great deal of warm water and scrubbing to remove all of the ichor from Persephone’s face and hair. Afterward, she lay on her (admittedly comfortable) bed, staring at the painted swans on the ceiling.

  This was not where she had expected to be.

  Her morning had been so full of hope and anticipation. Now, there was only an eternity of the underworld before her; that and the memory of Pirithous’s sightless eyes boring into her soul.

  Persephone curled up in her sheets and cried herself to sleep.

  Xenia woke her some time later. “Begging your pardon, mistress, but Queen Hades desires your presence.”
r />   Persephone was tempted to disappear under the covers, but she knew no good would come of it. Still, she protested. “Now?” The window was dark, so it had to be night.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Persephone emerged from her nest of blankets and pulled a fresh chiton over her head. “Where is she?”

  “In her rooms.”

  Persephone’s pulse quickened. She turned her head to hide her blush. “Thank you.”

  Xenia nodded and left her.

  Persephone had slept in her wet braid; there was really nothing to be done about her hair. She caught sight of her own reflection and winced. Bruises blossomed on her arms and shoulders, with more on her legs and hips, courtesy of her misadventures in the storage chest. She tossed a himation over her shoulders, wrapping it closely around her neck.

  She opened the door between their rooms. Hades was sitting at her writing desk, as usual, her reed pen scratching away. The desk faced away from Persephone, such that Hades’ back was slightly turned to her.

  Persephone stood in the doorway for some time. Hades had also changed out of her bloodstained clothes and was wearing once more a chiton that seemed to be made of pure shadow.

  After what felt like a candle mark had passed, Hades set down her pen, turned and looked at her. “That will not do. You must knock.” She gestured. “Try again.”

  Persephone looked at the door, then back at Hades. “You asked for my presence.”

  “I insist.”

  Throwing her hands up, Persephone stepped back into her own room and closed the door. She hesitated, feeling foolish, then rapped upon the door with her fist.

  “Enter.”

  Persephone did so, closing the door behind her this time.

  “Do you know why I asked you to do that?” Hades asked, still seated.

  The only boundaries you care about are the ones you set. “Your rooms are your own, and I’m here upon your sufferance.”

  “Yes, and?”

  Persephone’s face grew hot. Were they really doing this? She was a goddess grown, not an errant child needing a lesson! “And you want to remind me that you feel the need to control everything.”