Captive in the Underworld

by Lianyu Tan

  “I—what? Him? But we haven’t discussed—”

  “There is nothing to discuss.” Hades jerked her head toward the exit.

  “I—oh!” Persephone threw her hands in the air and all but ran out, wishing for a door to slam behind her, to show her displeasure, and having to satisfy herself instead with the sharp sound of her footsteps echoing down the hallway as an unsatisfactory proxy.

  17

  Where Praise Is Due

  Hades did not request her presence again for a week, or maybe two. Each morning, Persephone would look to Xenia to read her the day’s tasks as she got dressed, dreading her punishment and yet longing for something to break up the monotony.

  But it never came. Instead, she continued her lessons with Stephanus, walked among the fields, even met some of the dead. Her hand was getting better, Stephanus told her grudgingly.

  Each day, she wondered whether it was raining or sunny upon the earth, whether the acanthus she’d planted last season were still blossoming. She thought of her mother, too, but less and less. Thinking of Demeter was painful, but like a bruise, it would smart when prodded and did not trouble her otherwise.

  It could not last forever.

  One gray morning, like so many other mornings before it, she was guided not to the library but to the back of the palace. Xenia joined her in a chariot, her eyes sad and her expression grim, giving Persephone forewarning of what was to come.

  As the horses pulled away from the palace, Persephone’s stomach dropped. The long wait had been intolerable, yes, but now that the day was finally here, this imminent anticipation was even worse.

  The horses led them up a winding path encircling a large hill. From the top, she could see the great elm of false dreams to the east, the ever-burning fires of the river Phlegethon to the north, and Oceanus to the west. The view around them was charming—insomuch as the underworld could be charming—marred only by the knowledge of why she’d been brought here.

  At the crest of the hill stood a magnificent willow, easily the height of eight men and just as broad. Its silvery leaves rustled in the wind as though it were sighing, and in its shadow the air seemed sweeter. Its foliage was trimmed so there was ample room to stand beneath it.

  From this lofty height she saw Hades’ golden chariot from some distance away as it approached. The lay of the land was such that at the top of the hill one could easily distinguish people in the distance, but from below they would be quite obscured.

  She didn’t have to wait long before Hades’ chariot arrived. Its rider wore a peplos as her gown today, of linen or some other sturdy material. Black, again.

  Hades dismounted. Persephone’s gaze instantly went to the whip attached to her belt. It was made of braided leather, with multiple tails, each tipped with a small knot. Persephone pressed her palms against her thighs to stop them from trembling.

  “Xenia,” Hades said by way of greeting. “Wife.” She walked to Persephone and cupped her cheek, tilting her face up.

  This close to Hades, Persephone’s lips tingled. She almost thought—she wanted—

  Hades’ finger traced a line down her cheek, but then she released her and stepped away. “Persephone, daughter of Zeus and Demeter, you have been convicted of attempting to leave the underworld without my express permission. On this day, I, Hades, will carry out your punishment, being one hundred lashes and a period of exposure, the length of which is to be contingent upon your actions.”

  Listening to Hades recite her sentence brought back the memories of that day in the throne room, hearing it for the first time. Persephone clasped her hands together, her nails digging into her palms. She would not beg. She would not.

  “Strip to the waist,” Hades said.

  Persephone waved Xenia off and proceeded to do it herself. She unfastened her fibulae, and the top of her chiton fell to her hips. She then unwound her strophion and handed it and her fibulae to Xenia for safekeeping. Her belt held her chiton in place like a layered skirt.

  “Stand facing the tree,” Hades said.

  Persephone walked to the willow. Its bark was gray and brown, striated with moss. A beetle climbed its trunk, taking no notice of her.

  Xenia took her left wrist and bound it to a branch, tugging on the restraints to make sure they were secure. She did the same with Persephone’s right wrist.

  Arms outstretched, Persephone felt as though she were poised to take wing. The air was cool against her naked back, and she shivered.

  “Xenia, please count for me,” Hades said.

  “Of course, my queen.”

  This would never have happened on the surface. Demeter would not have allowed it, and besides, Persephone could not be punished this way whilst standing upon Gaia’s earth—she would simply sink her toes into the dirt and let her mind drift, as stoic and patient as the willow before her. But this soil was not her soil, and this tree did not know her name. So she waited, her muscles trembling with the effort of holding still.

  The first blow struck between her shoulder blades, leaving thin lines of fire on her back. She jolted and pressed her forehead against the tree, willing it to lend her support.

  “One,” Xenia said.

  She could not survive this a hundred times; she would go mad. What was Hades thinking? She was her consort, not some common thief or vandal! She did not deserve—

  The whip whistled through the air again, its tails leaving their mark on Persephone’s back. She cried out, grateful for the emptiness around them and the knowledge that no one else would hear her.

  “Two.”

  Her skin screamed to her. She had only been flogged once before, and it had not hurt half as much as this. She had carelessly left her lantern in the fields, and it had burnt half the crop. Then, her punishment had been justified, the lesson clear.

  This?

  This just felt petty.

  She willed herself to relax, for her muscles to soften against the force of the blow, but she could not. Just hearing the soft whisper of the whip made her tense.

  “Three.”

  Tears rolled freely down her face. The willow bore all her weight now, as she could not hold herself upright without assistance. Every nerve sang out to her, and it felt like the heat on her back would set her aflame.

  She should’ve taken Kronos’s bargain, consequences be damned. He had true power; he would’ve been able to help her where Theseus and Pirithous had failed. If he had kept his word. If she could have trusted him. If, if, if...

  “Four.”

  Persephone screamed. She hated Hades with all her might, loathed her with all the passion that Kronos felt toward Zeus. Anyone would have run, in her position. What right did Hades have to take her from her home, deny her the earth and then punish her for trying to leave? It wasn’t fair!

  “Five.”

  She shouldn’t have run. Hades had warned her, and she’d not listened. She hadn’t listened to Demeter, either. If she’d been good, if she’d been quiet, she would still be home, and all of this would be a bad dream. Her mother would still love her—

  “Six.”

  “Please stop,” Persephone cried, her speech filled with tears, her voice a broken thing. “I can’t. Please.”

  She was still crying when Hades went to her and placed her palm on her cheek, turning Persephone to face her. Through her tears, Hades’ outline shimmered. She blinked them away.

  “You will survive, dear one,” Hades said. “You are stronger than this.” Hades placed a kiss in the middle of her forehead. The pressure of her lips burned rather than soothed.

  Persephone rested her cheek against the willow tree. The beetle had long gone, having reached greater heights than her eyes could follow. Never before had she felt so alone.

  “Seven.”

  Persephone continued to cry, not making any effort to stop her tears, or her screams. She was becoming less a person and more a mass of throbbing, burning pain, a flame consuming itself. A bead of liquid slid down the hollow of her spi
ne; sweat, or ichor. She wasn’t sure.

  “Eight.”

  “Please,” she sobbed in a chant. “Please, please, please...”

  “Nine.”

  Theseus and Pirithous had to be hurting much worse than this by now. How was that fair? How was any of this fair? Death was no release from suffering. Was that the rule the gods had to uphold? Was that justice?

  “Ten.”

  Ninety more to go. She couldn’t. She would faint, surely. If she were mortal, it could have killed her.

  Through her tears and congestion, it was getting harder to breathe. She gulped down mouthfuls of air, her nails digging into the bark of the tree. Sap ran over her fingers, pale and sticky.

  “Eleven.”

  She stopped listening to Xenia. She didn’t want to know. There was no beginning and no end anymore, only this vast sea of pain, burning and relentless. She could not swim.

  The ache in her arms was nothing compared to the fire on her back, but her shoulders still tingled with the strain of it. Her wrists chafed against their bonds, and her head throbbed. She wanted to throw up.

  At some point, Hades paused. Xenia came forward with a cool cloth, pressing it against Persephone’s forehead.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Xenia said. “You’re doing fine.”

  She was not fine. She might never be fine again.

  Persephone glanced sideways to see Hades had clipped the whip to her belt and was stretching out her arms, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension in them. Persephone hoped her muscles burned. She hoped the whip would wrap around and strike its mistress in the face.

  When Xenia stepped away from her, she knew Hades was preparing to begin again.

  “No,” she said, her fingers outstretched. “Don’t go—”

  “Fifty one.”

  Persephone howled to the treetops, to anyone who would hear her. Her skin must have parted; droplets of ichor fell off the tails of Hades’ whip, dripping onto the grass below. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair!

  She let go of any thought of revenge, any fantasies of what she might do to Hades. Her vision went red, then black. There was only the pain, coming in waves, and the itch of her skin trying to heal between blows; the damp, sticky heat of ichor soaking into her chiton, and the sound of her voice, hoarse and despairing.

  She was no longer Persephone, goddess of the springtime; she was only pain sculpted in the shape of a woman.

  When Hades finally stopped, for good this time, Persephone was a sobbing, shivering mess. Her wrists were rubbed raw from straining against their bonds, and her cheek held the imprint of bark.

  Hades walked up to her. “The first part of your sentence is complete,” she said.

  Persephone stared in her general direction, sweat and tears blurring her sight. Even thought hurt too much; she could barely summon the strength to breathe. Had she been able to see, she would have beheld Hades’ ravenous gaze, as if she yearned for something more.

  “For the second part of your sentence,” Hades said, “you will remain exposed to the elements until such time as you escape from your bonds or I choose to end your punishment.”

  Persephone’s head lolled to the side. Her mind was dull and useless, her back still a throbbing mass of agony, the specter of pain feeling larger than her body itself. “Are you giving me the tools to escape?” she muddled out at last.

  “You already have them,” Hades said. She placed two fingers beneath Persephone’s chin and kissed her forehead, her lips feeling like a brand. Her hand lingered against Persephone’s hair, fingertips tracing across her shoulder and brushing down her back.

  Persephone whimpered, flinching away from her touch. Hades brought her hand to her mouth and tasted Persephone’s suffering, her eyes half-lidded.

  There was a threat there, more dangerous than the weight of Hades’ authority in the Hall of Judgment. Persephone caught Hades’ gaze, held it.

  Hades’ eyes softened. She brushed a stray tendril of hair back from Persephone’s face, tucking it behind her ear. Persephone pressed her cheek against Hades’ palm.

  “You look—” Hades whispered. She took a breath, swallowed. “You are perfection.”

  “If you had any tender thoughts in your heart you would spare me this torment,” Persephone said, squeezing her eyes closed.

  “If I thought you powerless, I would do so. But you have the will to see this through.” Hades’ hand fell away, leaving Persephone with only the memory of the warmth of her skin. “Xenia will stay with you for some time,” she said. “Suffer well, dear Persephone.” She turned from them and went to her chariot. The vehicle jolted forward, the horses breaking into a gallop that soon carried Hades far, far away.

  Persephone breathed out a sigh. Her heartbeat felt too rapid, her hands trembling.

  With Hades gone, Xenia came forward, holding a jug of water and clean rags. Persephone had almost forgotten about her presence.

  “This may sting,” Xenia said.

  She began to bathe Persephone’s wounds. It did sting, but it was nothing compared to what she’d endured before. Persephone closed her eyes and clenched her teeth together. After her back had been gently patted dry, Xenia smeared a paste over her wounds and bound them before slipping off Persephone’s damp and ichor-stained chiton and dressing her in a fresh one, draping it loosely over her bandages.

  Xenia dipped a cloth in ambrosia and held it to Persephone’s mouth. Persephone sucked on it greedily as the warming liquid soothed her wounds. Even now, she could feel her flesh itching and knitting together under the bandages. With such prompt attention, it was unlikely to scar.

  As her back started to heal, she catalogued the rest of her body’s complaints. Her arms and shoulders ached, and she longed to lie down, or even to sit. There was a spot on the side of her nose that needed scratching, and she could not quite reach it by rubbing her face against the willow’s trunk.

  “May I?” Xenia asked.

  Persephone nodded, her cheeks flushing. Xenia gently rubbed at the spot until Persephone turned her head away. The woman had seen her bathe before, but somehow this felt more personal.

  “How long will you stay?” Persephone asked.

  Xenia began packing up the rest of the bandages. “Until nightfall, at least.”

  Persephone glanced up, unable to see much of the sky through the willow’s leaves. They had left the palace in the early morning, and it couldn’t be more than an hour later.

  “How long does she mean to leave me like this?” she demanded.

  “I really can’t say, mistress. This is not a punishment I’ve witnessed before.”

  Persephone pulled uselessly at the cloth that bound her wrists to the tree. It did nothing but irritate the already inflamed skin on her arms.

  She looked at Xenia as the woman poured water over her own hands, washing them. “You could release me,” Persephone said. “Hades is gone. No one need ever know.”

  Xenia flicked the water from her hands. “You and I would know, and then our queen would know. I’m sorry, mistress. I cannot.”

  Persephone slumped against the tree and blew a stray hair from across her face. “Fine, then. If I’m to suffer, I don’t wish to be bored. Tell me a story.”

  “What would you like to hear?”

  “Something true. Tell me about your children. You did have children, didn’t you?”

  Xenia’s face broke into a smile. “Oh, yes. Four children and twenty-one grandchildren. I stopped counting after that.”

  “How many more generations?” Persephone asked.

  Xenia blushed. “I’ve been dead for almost two centuries.”

  Persephone blinked. She supposed the afterlife was a kind of immortality in its own way, where time held less meaning. “Do you still see them?”

  Xenia nodded. “I visit from time to time, on my day of leave.”

  Even death could not save one from familial duties. “You must miss them the rest of the time, then? What did you do to deserve
the punishment of serving me?”

  “Punishment?” Xenia stood a little straighter. “I had to compete with hundreds of other women, some of far nobler birth than I, for this position.”

  “Why?”

  Xenia allowed the silence to stretch on for so long that Persephone thought perhaps she’d misheard. But eventually, Xenia said in a low voice, “Forgive me for saying so, but you cannot afford to be this naive. The underworld has never been and never will be a democracy. The Host of Many is its mistress, and you have her confidence.”

  Persephone wasn’t sure if she would forgive Xenia. “I’ve never changed her mind.”

  “Perhaps not yet. But in time, she will listen to you.”

  Persephone could not imagine that ever happening, but then again, Hades had seemed moved by her plight—and though she’d lingered over Persephone’s suffering that morning, she’d also walked away, despite whatever else she might have desired. “In time? Do you mean a year, or a century?”

  “Change can come faster than that. She may seem harsh, but it is only her duty. Perhaps you could help her see another way.”

  And perhaps Zeus would become celibate.

  They turned to lighter topics after that, stories of Xenia’s youth, of her experience as a young mother. Persephone realized she’d never spent this long in conversation with a mortal before. Their lives were as full as the gods’, fleeting though they might be.

  Xenia fed her more ambrosia from time to time and smeared ointment over Persephone’s cracked lips. But no matter how hard Persephone pleaded, she would not free her.

  “The night grows upon us. I must leave you,” Xenia said.

  Persephone had become accustomed to hearing her voice during the intervening hours. “Will someone else come?”

  “I’ve not been informed. I’m sorry.”

  “What should I do?”

  Xenia hesitated. In the gathering twilight, her shadow loomed long across the ground. “Queen Hades does not lie,” she said. “If she believes you can free herself, you should do everything in your power to make the attempt.”