The Eighth House_Hades & Persephone

by Eris Adderly

  “Do not worry, Mother, I will not ask you to look so closely again, this night.”

  “Karporphoros,” the woman said, regaining her balance. “What is it? What have you done?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Persephone said. She contemplated the altered jewel. Placed it on her own finger. “I will return this to you,” she said. “I promise this.”

  “Will it … will it dizzy my head again when you do, Green One?” The unspoken part remained, of course. If it will, you can keep it.

  “It will not if I make a new gift of it in the way I intend.”

  Dark, expectant eyes returned to the goddess, pleading to understand.

  “You will do so much for so many,” Persephone said. She turned the ring this way and that in the lamplight, allowing the inception of such a deed to settle on her. “I will take some time. I will not choose in haste, my mortal friend. But an eternity is going to waste in my hands, and it would not in yours.”

  “Goddess.” A mere whisper.

  Was the ichor still gold in her veins? Or would Persephone bleed red now, if she cut herself?

  “If I return with this stone unchanged,” she said, “my immortality is yours.”

  After several incredulous blinks, Polyxene stammered. “But I am a—an old woman! Well. Perhaps not old, but”—she made a helpless gesture—“but, Goddess.”

  Persephone reached for the woman with half a tired smile.

  “Then I will not make you wait long, worthy friend.”

  The unnatural green gem sang in the light. The goddess would have to begin paying heed to the time.

  *

  It was not unusual for the Goddess of Lust to slink everywhere she walked. It was not unusual for her to glide familiar fingertips along the columns and doorways of immortal palaces. It was not even unusual for her to smirk and sigh out of boredom, oh no. Reputations were not born out of thin air.

  It was unusual, however, for her to be doing these things in the Underworld. Whether she would still have done them, if she knew the Lord of the Dead watched her, remained a mystery.

  Hades was not amused.

  He stood at the head of the great hall, the Helm of Darkness concealing him altogether as he assessed his uninvited guest.

  The moment one of the Olympians had entered his realm, he’d felt the familiar pressure. It shared a hint of sameness with a state of submersion in water, though subtler, more airy somehow. When he’d traced the disturbance to its source, and discovered Aphrodite, of all immortals, circumspection had banded with irritation and Hades had followed her, hidden.

  Now her steps carried her around the floor of the great hall, her footfalls producing no echo, despite the size and relative emptiness of the chamber. A dozen or so of her acolytes clustered together just inside a vaulted doorway the lot of them could have passed through three times abreast. The windowless corridor outside it loomed like a void. Breathing as one, they stood without a scrap of clothing to share among them. Hades curled an unseen lip.

  She brings living mortals into my domain? Arrogant.

  The goddess stood out as a gewgaw on an ash heap amid the cool, dry black of the hall. As it remained always, at his preference, a diffused glow lit the chamber from nowhere and everywhere all at once. He could see the distaste radiating from her like heat from her unfortunate husband’s forge as she eyed the broad, twisting columns that marched the length of the space. He suspected her unaccustomed to a place so bereft of ornament. But Hades would not soften hard lines with draperies or mosaics. It was not his way.

  She sauntered toward the Throne of Tears as he watched, circling it as she stepped up onto the dais. He felt his jaw tighten, but waited. The most opportune moment would come.

  The severe, black granite seat, on which Hades alone had the right to sit, spanned the space between a pair of towering, glossy stalagmites, eternally forming on the very spot. The goddess traced a delicate fingertip through the moisture on one of the dark columns, taking a license too far. And, as anticipated, she turned her back.

  He removed the Helm, appearing some paces behind her. The herd of acolytes gasped.

  “You imagine you can meet the demands of this Throne?”

  Aphrodite turned, unflapped, toward the flat rumble of his voice and greeted him with a smile that told him this meeting would only get worse.

  “Hades.” She acknowledged him with the slightest of nods; familiar and brazen in a way only the Goddess of Lust would dare respond to a Lord of one of the three realms. “A grim throne for a grim ruler, yes? I had no idea you favored a style so”—her eyes flitted around the hall—“bare bones.” She flashed teeth at the tasteless jest.

  “For what purpose,” he said, taking a deliberate step, and then another in the direction of his throne, “are you in my domain? I am certain my realm has never been considered a destination of pleasure.” He sneered at the word. “And I know you to make efforts when it comes to only one other pursuit.”

  He came to stand on the dais, and turned to look down at her, allowing his height to speak about which of them had precedence here. Some of her smirk deflated, only to reappear inverted in his own scowl.

  “So. Goddess. What matter of business brings you beneath the Earth?”

  Olympians did not travel to the Underworld if they could avoid it. Even Hermes, and that one was familiar with the landscape.

  Whatever she’s about, you won’t like it.

  Aphrodite stepped down onto the floor of the hall, waving a hand as though she found him tiresome. Hades took his seat.

  He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his forefingers together, awaiting the nonsense. The goddess bothered with no preamble.

  “It is time for you to take a wife, Rich One.”

  And nonsense it was.

  He exhaled scorn in a quick rush of air.

  “Are you not lonely under the Earth, my lord?” Her voice turned to honey, as though a solicitous course would be effective with the Lord of the Dead.

  “Bah.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Do be serious, Goddess.”

  Lonely. Did Olympos believe him so weak? He had ruled alone for ages without the need of another.

  Perhaps they deserve a reminder of who resides here.

  “I am quite serious, my Lord Hades.” And by the Fates, if her eyes did not say it. Did the others send her, or had she come under her own impetus?

  “The Throne of Tears is not a burden to be held by one who pines for companionship like an unweaned pup,” he said. “I need nothing of wives.”

  His brothers hadn’t brought up the subject in an æon. They knew better after the last time. So why, then, was Aphrodite here, raising the issue again now? Her feigned concern for his solitude was merely a first gambit, of course. Olympians didn’t bother themselves with happiness in the Underworld. He waited for the rest, features blank.

  “Do you not even desire a partner who can satisfy your particular”—she rolled her eyes up to search for the word she wanted and came back with a mocking arched brow—“needs?”

  Insinuation flowed heavy and florid as the goddess swayed a path over the stones. In a chamber of linear black and grey, Aphrodite cut a shocking figure. A mass of coppery hair tumbled forward over fair shoulders. Pale green linen, sheer as mist, draped over her curves in a mockery of discretion. Nipples and navel unnecessarily on display, though to what end in his presence, Hades could not determine.

  Aphrodite might have been a perfect distraction for mortal men. Her wiles might even ensnare other gods from time to time, more the fool Ares. But the Underworld was his realm. It respected no power save his own, and visiting immortals soon found their familiar abilities most useless until they returned to the sea or sky.

  The goddess’s charms were quite impotent here, and Hades found this suitable to his purpose.

  “And what would you know of my ‘needs’?” he said.

  “I know enough.” Something kindled, secret behind her eyes, and she t
oyed with an emerald pendant the size of a bird’s egg that rested between her breasts. He didn’t care for secrets.

  “One can only imagine.” He drummed slow fingers on the arm of his throne and continued, dry as ash. “A deathless god may have his pick of mortal bodies, if he wishes to quench baser thirsts, Goddess of Lust—a fact of which I am certain you are intimately aware.” A shadow of a smirk appeared. “I have no need to alter my circumstances. Marriage is a fruitful endeavor. It has no place in the realm of the dead.”

  “I see.” Some of the bold assurance had drained from her eyes, but something with a hard edge moved in to replace it.

  “Allow me to approach this proposition from another angle, Lord of the Dead,” she said, slinging his name back at him in an equally taunting manner. “There is a particular flower I wish you to pluck up in marriage, and you will do this thing for me because you owe me a debt.” She folded her arms across her breasts and met his eyes in challenge.

  “What debt.” The word fell heavy and deliberate, a bitter mouthful. “And what flower?” Hades frowned. His patience had limits.

  “Ah, what indeed?” Satisfaction returned to her drawl.

  Tiresome. And wasting his time. Minos will have been waiting.

  “Do you enjoy vexing me, Goddess?”

  Aphrodite ignored him and scanned the room from one end to the other before making a face. She raised a graceful hand at the elbow and made a languid motion to her acolytes. A buxom young mortal broke from the huddle near the door and approached her goddess, eyes glazed in euphoria. Bouncing to obey, the woman dropped to hands and knees on the stone floor, head erect and proud in her service. Aphrodite nodded an approval and took a seat on the arched back of her devotee and, furniture thus arranged, returned to her original pursuit.

  “There is the little matter of the Elaionapothos,” she said. “You did not create it without help, as I recall.”

  Hades narrowed his eyes.

  “What was it you said to me?” she asked. “When you and I finished perfecting that little toy? An endeavor, I might add, for which you approached me for assistance.”

  Ah yes. That little project.

  And now Aphrodite had come to see him make good on his word. Though he ground his teeth, he would not be able to sit silent indefinitely.

  “I said I was in your debt,” Hades answered. “And I would grant you a favor, should you ask it.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I see you do remember. And now I am calling upon it. I want you to take a wife. You’re one of the last of us, Polydegmon, to be otherwise unattached. Your realm is ideally out of the way.” She made an encompassing gesture. “And that is where I need this little distraction moved. Out of the way.”

  He regarded her in silence, waiting for elaboration. None was immediate.

  She made another subtle curve of her wrist and two more stepped away from her entourage, both male, both aroused. Aphrodite’s presence on Olympos turned heads. Among mortals it intoxicated, indiscriminate. The acolytes approached their goddess from either side, eyes locked on her face, fevered with lust, each with a hand absently stroking an erection.

  Ignoring the human tableau in favor of checking his temper, Hades pressed her. “And this … wife,” he said with distaste. “An immortal, I assume.”

  “Of course.” She smiled. The advantage was hers now, and the goddess preened. At a nod of her head, the mortal man to her left knelt, ready phallus in hand. He pushed and found entry, taking up a leisurely thrusting, thighs kissing the upturned rump of Aphrodite’s human bench. His eyes never left the goddess, hungry as they were for approval. The worshipper-turned-seat began sounding her thanks for such a reward, and the usual stillness of his hall fled before earthy moans.

  Hades took a long, full breath, and let it out. Slowly.

  “Will your plaything be making a burdensome amount of noise for the duration?”

  Aphrodite smirked and tilted her head toward the man on her right, who moved to kneel in front of the now panting female. Like his counterpart, he found an eager entrance and began a slow plumbing of the woman’s throat. Moans now reduced to quiet mewling, the goddess met his eyes, pleased with her crude ingenuity and daring him to veer off into petty distractions.

  “Is that better then, Lord? Not so loud now?” she said.

  He lifted an impassive brow.

  Hades was no stranger to pursuits of the flesh. In fact, some of the ‘entertainments’ he enjoyed might have been beyond even Aphrodite’s tolerance for perversity. His pleasures, however, he took in private. The lewd public performances the goddess demanded of her followers felt crass and amateurish. A complete waste of time, but Lust Herself was ever inclined toward spectacle.

  “Your theatrics grow tiresome,” he said. “Name names. Who would you see as Lady of the Underworld? Satisfy my morbid curiosity.”

  “I didn’t imagine you had any other kind,” she said. “I name the maid Persephone. And I do not suggest. I demand. As payment on your debt.” She laid her hands atop her knee, a look of sober calculation underlying the outrageous display around her.

  He snorted in mild amusement. “It is unwise to make demands where you are not the highest authority. A daughter of Zeus, you say? Have you considered that I have chosen to remain unwed for these many ages expressly to avoid becoming further embroiled in Olympian politics?”

  “There are advantages to strengthening your ties to the Lord of Lightnings,” she said, her words melting into a purr that might have worked on other immortals. “Persephone’s voice advancing her husband’s agenda—your agenda—into her father’s ear, could help to ease relations between the realms. Basileus, our king, has not always decided matters in your favor in the past, if I recall correctly. Wedding his daughter could only provide leverage for your side in the future.”

  “Your logic is not unreasonable,” he said, “but I find it lacking. The only one in this hall concerned with my political standing is me, yet I know you seek this match for your own benefit.”

  Aphrodite tilted her head just to one side, patient for the rest. He asked the question.

  “Why Persephone specifically, and not some other daughter of Olympos? We both know there are plenty.” His brother’s reputation for spreading his seed was not what one would call ‘discriminating’. “Not that it matters,” he said. “I’ve heard rumor of Demeter rejecting any immortal suit to come her daughter’s way. You know she will never allow it.”

  “Ah, but this is the very meat of the thing,” she said. “Demeter has kept her exiled from the palaces. From Olympos itself. Even the Lord of Lightnings has been complicit in preventing the male gods from seeking Persephone’s attentions elsewhere.”

  Hades gave a minimal shrug and Aphrodite took the hint to come to the point. The goddess swayed with the subtle rocking of her bench, and her lips turned up at one side.

  “You see,” she said, “your nephew, Hermes—that fickle deity—has been ignoring my charms of late. He persists in his obsession with Demeter’s daughter, despite the edict to keep her sequestered from the lot of you.” Her eyes looked him up and down, and Hades knew whom she meant: any god with a cock.

  “I grow tired of his preoccupation with this immortal he shall never come to know. It is time for his attentions to return to their proper place.”

  So there it was. Jealousy.

  The base emotions are to be found at the root of all designs. Do you not know this, Clymenus?

  “And I assume the ‘proper place’ for his attentions is on you, Aphrodite?”

  “Of course,” she said, as though he were being obtuse. “I’m the mother of his children. And his lover. The Goddess of Love allows her consorts’ interest to wane when she chooses.” Her lips came almost into a pout and she stroked the damp chest of a still thrusting male acolyte with the back of her hand.

  Hades couldn’t help but laugh.

  “It appears he has already chosen, Fair One! And what do you suppose Hephaistos thinks about all this
?” A rare bit of mirth warmed his chest. She wanted him to go to the trouble of taking a bride—a daughter of Zeus, no less!—all because she wanted a lover’s attentions back on herself. The weaknesses of the other immortals never failed to entertain him.

  “Hephaistos is none of your concern,” she said. “My husband and I have an ‘arrangement’.”

  He observed the smug lines of her face, the musk of coupling blooming in his throne room.

  An ‘arrangement’. I do not doubt that at all.

  “Let us say I entertain this absurdity of yours,” he said, altering his tactics. “You claim some knowledge of my ‘needs’, do you? What will I do then, with a maiden, hmm? Or do you believe the generous patience I’m showing you here extends to my lovers?”

  Aphrodite showed her earthy side and snorted. “What won’t you do, you filthy immortal?” It was enough to make him bark out a laugh. “And I suspect you create worries where none exist. I think you’ll find Persephone’s temperament quite suited to your little ‘proclivities’, should you make the effort. After all, there’s someone for everyone, isn’t there?”

  “Not for me. Not here.”

  He’d tried to slice through with a note of finality, but it did nothing to affect Aphrodite’s knowing smirk. “That remains to be seen,” she said.

  “And what of Demeter’s permission?”

  You’re not giving this serious consideration, are you?

  It was a mad idea. Preposterous. But a primitive, inexorable part of him had awakened at the scent of blood, as it were.

  An immortal companion. The notion rolled around in his mouth, savory and crimson. His experiences with mortal flesh had been entertaining enough over the ages, but perhaps another of his own ilk might prove …

  No. He pushed the thought down with an internal grimace.

  Here you are, getting caught up her machinations.