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It’s the first day of spring and the face on him would curdle cream.
What’s new? they ask but they know. They know.
She stands tall, at once golden and shades of midnight skies. To him, Persephone is the northern lights; despite the prior claims of Astraeus and Eos. (He admits this to no one; Hades has no poetic inclinations and he would be a laughing stock, oh.)
“He’ll pine without you,” he says.
She smiles at him, brisk like winter. “It is no reason to stay.”
“Your mother has been in foul humour,” he says, sourly. It’s true. There’s been talk of a polar vortex. The Niagara Falls froze and his halls have been thronging.
“That is her prerogative,” she says. She crouches before Cerberus. All three heads try to lick her face and she laughs. Spring and summer will be dull without her laughter.
.
One more night. He can often coax one more night from her. He tells her how Cerberus will miss her and the Judges will frown, their brows heavy and black with consternation. Charon may sulk, which is always unseemly and it scares the new arrivals, who are already at odds with their existence. There is no cellphone coverage in the Underworld and Charon does not accept credit cards and the souls are in disarray and denial. Charon is never impressed when Hermes tells him there is an app for that; Am I Dead Yet?. It’s a top seller, Hermes says, and Charon is missing a whole corner of the market.
The rivers will sigh, or scream, as is their wont, and he thinks of all the oaths he might swear on the Styx. There is a wizened, blackened tree stump by the banks of Acheron and Hades knows better than to mention dead Leuce.
Your children, he tells her, ill-begotten though two of them are. They will miss you.
She cups his face in her perfect hands and tells him to grow a pair. He does not enjoy the idiom she acquires when she is away from home.
(She stays another night.)
.
It is the second day of spring. Demeter is threatening an Ice Age and Persephone laughs. She pulls on thigh-high leather boots and wears a long leather coat.
“You look like something out of The Matrix,” says Hermes, as he comes to escort her away and Hades scowls. He does not know what Hermes means and he is jealous of Persephone’s smiles when they are meant for another.
Hades is a miser for his wife’s smiles.
Cerberus nudges his leg and whines; a requiem in three parts.
She is going, he seems to say. She is going she is going somewhere we can’t follow.
Hades knows exactly how he feels.
.
He watches her, sometimes, from shadows, under New York bridges, like a particularly recalcitrant troll.
“He pines without you,” he hears Hermes say.
“Who?” asks Persephone, archly. Her heels click-clack on Manhattan’s sidewalks. “The dog or my king?”
Hermes laughs and Persephone’s gaze flickers towards Hades’ shadows. She smiles. “He knows I am not gone far.”
.
“It’s Stockholm Syndrome,” says Demeter, swirling her cocktail. “You mark my words.”
“It was long before Stockholm, Mother, and I made my choice. The place needed a woman’s touch.”
Demeter looks unimpressed. For once, Hades is in accordance with his sister.
.
She walks through Central Park and Cerberus rushes towards her. The mortals, still encased in flesh and blood, cannot see Cerberus’ three heads. Hades thinks they only see a stubby-legged Corgi.
Persephone is delighted and she looks around for Hades. He is adept at hiding, even in summer time. She crooks her finger. “Come to me.”
This is her kingdom come and he is little more than a vassal.
“Come,” she says.
She laughs when she sees him, her hands on her hips.
“You are a hipster, my husband,” she says, regarding him critically. “The plaid is a bit much.”
He is confused. Fashions pass him by and all of his mortal clothes are ill-fitting. He wears glasses to obscure his eyes, a little. (It is hard to hide the depths of hell in his black eyes.)
“Let me guess.” Persephone is rubbing Cerberus’ belly and his leg is thumping and he is, quite frankly, an embarrassment to the Underworld. (Hades knows that he is no better.) “He was pining and so you sallied forth from your cave in the height of summer.”
“Something like that.” Hades’ lips quirk into an unfamiliar shape; a smile, or near enough. He squints at the sky. “It is overly warm.”
She bares her arms to the sunshine. “Yes and it is glorious.” She stands up and takes his arm. “Come with me, dread lord, and we’ll find a coffee shop, with air-conditioning.”
He snorts. Even if the sky is too blue and the sun is too bright; even if he is in danger of perspiring (and he can hear the roll of thunder of Zeus’ amusement), she can coax a smile out of him, just as he can coax an extra night from her.
Persephone whistles sharply and Cerberus sheepishly lowers his leg, poised as he was against a low railing.
.
“Summer in New York,” she says. “Maybe you might grow to love it.”
“And maybe Apollo will learn that turning women into trees is not an appropriate response to spurned love,” he says.
There is a peal of laughter and she holds his arm tighter. “No one believes me when I say you have a sense of humour, you know.”
“As no one believes me when I say that you have me wrapped around your little finger.”
Cerberus yelps and his tongue hangs out in an approximation of a laugh.
“Oh,” Persephone. “My lord. Everyone knows that. Come, let’s get you inside before you get sunstroke.”
“I think I already have it,” says Hades, faintly. There really are too many heartbeats and too much breathing-breathing life and no one respects his personal space. His nose twitches. The pollen count is too high, too.
“I’ll be home to you soon,” says Persephone and she inhales all the life around them as though it is something joyous, to be savoured.
.
He retreats to the Underworld, where it is blessedly cool and dark and the souls have the good grace to be terrified of him, and where asphodel does not make him sneeze.
Cerberus still pines.
Perhaps Hades does too, a little.
.
It is the first day of fall. He taps his foot and everyone holds their breath. Winter breathes out and she returns, barefoot and laughing.