Rachel Alexander's Blog, page 30
September 28, 2021
theia-mania-comics:
Queen of the Dead 080
The more angry ...
Queen of the Dead 080
The more angry Athena is with her father, the more titles she uses when she speaks to him. But no matter what she does, she always remains Zeus’ favorite.
September 27, 2021
may12324:
The swooning harpy
The swooning harpy
biggest-gaudiest-patronuses:
biggest-gaudiest-patronuses:...
kids these days with their sundials & their water clocks. when I was a boy we told time with our hunger pangs and we LIKED it
I wish I were making this up
people have always just been Like This (src)
September 26, 2021
nemfrog:
“Autumn.” Needlework pattern. The Priscilla file...
“Autumn.” Needlework pattern. The Priscilla filet crochet book, no. 2. 1914.
fdevitart:“The red thread of fate”Or “When you help bae s...
“The red thread of fate”
Or “When you help bae slay a monster, but he’s a f***ing douchebag and ditches you on a desert island, like thanks for nothing Theseus, you son of a b**ch”
September 25, 2021
Thank you! I had a lot of conflicting feelings about Mint...
Thank you! I had a lot of conflicting feelings about Minthe. For starters, she only appears in later Roman iterations of the Hades and Persephone myth, most imho to make Dis Pater seem more like his philandering brothers and Proserpina more like Juno. The myths that survived don’t paint anyone involved in Minthe’s story in a good light.
I thought connecting her to Leuce only seemed appropriate since Leuce’s story seemed to take place earlier in the myth. I’ve been tempted in the past to write a one-shot about Leuce’s doomed and unrequited love for Aidoneus, but it might be too angsty for me to focus on right now or ever.
Best more me to leave that story to the imagination (and who knows, maybe the pens) of others.
themacabrenbold:Valletta, Malta Chapel of Skulls . Photo ...
Valletta, Malta Chapel of Skulls . Photo of a detail at the ossuary chapel on Malta, taken from a nineteenth-century English magazine. In its day, one of the world’s famous ossuaries, but destroyed by a bomb in World War II.
rullinirubati:
Jesse Campbell “Awaiting Her Love on the B...
Jesse Campbell “Awaiting Her Love on the Bank of River Styx”
therkalexander:
corporeal-terrestrial:
therkalexander:
...
There gotta be most Greek Myths peeps on Tumblr: what would be the best framing for a modern Hades and Persephone story
Demeter’s flower shop has been in her family for years. She trades off with Persephone between the front counter and the back room, just as she did with her mother, long ago. Persephone’s slated to take over the business one day, she just knows it, loves her work, loves the security of it, arranges irises and larkspur among the sprigs of baby’s breath and fern. She sings with her mom when Demeter is counting the till or sorting poppies. The same few playlists cycle over and over and Persephone makes Demeter laugh by parodying with her own often lewd verses. Her mom scolds her but can’t hide the mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes. And so this goes and has gone for all the years since college. But there’s a dread finality to all of it that makes Persephone lay awake at night, wasting time on her phone, or staring up through the skylight in her bedroom.
On the other side of town, Hades just received word that the family whose funeral is slated for tomorrow has had a complete cancellation of all their food, flowers, everything. Something about a maxed out credit card… At his mortuary. His. He can’t let that stand. Because he’s seen too many exhausted, shattered families, too many people who need to mourn, and mundane details of final expenses shouldn’t cloud their minds on a day like that. Any other businessman would politely turn them away. He should turn them away, but he doesn’t.
Cursing, and walking from store to store in the rain, he finally gets Hecate, one of the better caterers in town, to agree on short notice. He’ll pay her back— he’s not hurting for money. He’s already walked a mile and a wreath of roses is next. And he’s certainly not going to the bastards up the way who made the poor widow cry when they hung up on her this morning.
The bell above the door clangs, and Persephone doesn’t bother to look up from the narcissus she squeezes into the last spring wedding bouquet. It’s her mother, she figures, back from the next door bakery with their lunch. It isn’t until she hears a voice, edged with frustration and seriousness at first, but under the rough skin of it, softness as he describes the bind he’s in. He looms large in the doorway and he needs her.
Her help, rather. She swallows, remembering what her mom has always said. Net 30, and even that’s pushing it. Only with prior accounts, only with people from this side of town who we know, Persephone. It’s what Demeter’s always warned her about: getting in too deep, going off the books… the death of so many other small businesses in this economy. So it surprises her when she offers to create the arrangements for this dark stranger. And shocks her when she blurts out that she will deliver them herself, tomorrow, across the tracks. Her car’s overdue for an oil change and the starter that craps out when the weather gets too cold… and now she’s flush because she’s been talking out loud like an idiot.
He smiles. Briefly. And then comes his offer to pick her up. He stutters when she asks him to repeat it, and kicks himself. He’s waiting for her to decline and ask him to leave in that scared, polite tone that women use, because most men with an offer like that are dangerous. But she accepts. It’s impulsive, but seems like the most natural thing in the world that he’s going to just roll up in his chariot and bear her and her flowers to be arranged at a funeral without any warning. He clears his throat again and is gone, muttering that he’ll see her tomorrow, early. 8 o’clock sharp.
Demeter comes back 10 minutes later, unwrapping a sumptuous ham on rye, which they split. No one comes in on a rainy day, Demeter remarks. Persephone merely nods, her mouth full. She can’t tell her mom about how many white roses she’s going to give away. And what’s worse, Persephone realizes, she’ll have to stay late to finish it. More lies she’ll have to fix later. But she’ll tell Demeter when she gets back from the funeral home. After all, this is Persephone’s shop too, and it’s time to make an adult decision and sometimes compassion wins over rationality. Or at least that’s what she tells herself. His voice still hangs in the air, as does the scent of rain and cypress on his wool coat.
She’ll tell the truth when she gets back.
Please continue. 🥺🥺🥺😍😍😍
The rain lets up just as they finish the wedding bouquets. A few more customers, and another order for next week. Persephone stays to close after her mom walks the deposit to the bank. She dusts the counter half heartedly until Demeter is out of sight of the front window, then sweeps the door and walkway for ten minutes just in case her mother comes back. 5 o’clock and no sign of her.
Helios, the retiree living in the apartment above, waves at her and chews on a cigar. His skin is wrinkled from decades of sunbathing in his youth. Whenever it’s not raining, he’s sits on his balcony sunrise to sunset, the world coming and going and Helios seeming to know everyone in it. She chats for a bit, then politely reminds him that she has to close the store.
Persephone locks the door and sighs. She pulls a styrofoam ring mold from the top shelf. They usually don’t do funerals. Remembrance planters, yes. Full funerals? Rarely. Her grandmother’s arrangement was the last one she’d done. And that was during college. The fridge is freezing, and her teeth chatter as she gathers a dozen bushels of roses. White, as requested.
And then the phone rings.
The old tape answering machine has been there for 30 years and served them well, weeding out sales and robocalls. And if it ain’t broke… “You’ve reached Gaia’s Flowers; our hours are 9 to 5 Tuesday through Sunday and our last delivery is at 4 pm. Please leave a message.” She hears a throat clearing on the line and a low, familiar voice hesitantly starts speaking.
It’s him. Persephone bolts for the phone and picks up. She hears feedback, apologizes, fumbles to turn off the answering machine and finally says her name. He asks if she’s the one he talked to this afternoon. When she affirms, he starts to apologize, saying he hadn’t even introduced himself and had barged in, and put her on the spot. He says don’t bother about the flowers. Worried, she asks if he’s found someone else. He sighs and says no, heavily. She insists. It’s a practicality at this point. You can’t have a funeral without flowers. Besides… she’s already started. Can she call him back? She needs to keep the store line free just in case. Persephone jots down his number. An Olympia prefix. Odd. Still no name.
She punches it into her cell, turns on the speaker and tucks her phone into the side of her bra so she can work on the arrangement hands free. In her mind Persephone hears her mother’s voice clucking about breast cancer from cellphone radiation or whatever as his phone rings.
In his dim office, far from the muted voices and tears of the vigil, Hades hears a buzzing and winces. Shit. He gave her his private phone. Not the business line as he should have, but his mobile. He debates whether or not he should answer it. Her voice blurts as soon as he hits the button, asking for his name. He gives it and launches back into his apology.
Persephone accepts it and said she wanted to help because he looked desperate. He agrees, and thanks her. They carry on, much to his surprise. He usually hates talking on the phone. She tells him more about her shop, and he about how he came to run a mortuary. She brings up the Olympia prefix, and asks if she’ll be driving all the way there. He pinches his nose and offers that he was tired and just defaulted to his cell, and no, his business isn’t 50 miles away. She titters and asks him how he likes their humble town and he tells her that yes, he came from privilege, but ghosted his toxic father years ago and fixed the damage in therapy. He’s unsure why he’s offering all these details to a woman he barely knows.
His profession is creepy enough to outsiders as it is, and at this point Hades is fairly certain she’s about to hang up, thinking he’s a serial killer. He’s no good on the phone… but she stays, chats with him, talks about her great relationship with her mom, her non-existent one with her dad, and each interrupts the call when she needs to dig more flowers out of the back or when he needs to close up after the wake.
It’s past midnight and still they talk. It would have taken her half this time if she wasn’t so… pleasantly distracted. The wreath is finished, but she wants to do more. Her grandmother’s casket was covered in the loveliest crescent spray of flowers, with lilies and roses, larkspur and irises. Persephone preempts him, says it’s free of charge, that she needs the practice as she rarely does casket sprays.
Hades wants to protest, but knows it won’t work on her. He laughs. For the first time in a while. He wants to stay on the phone with her but needs to rest before tomorrow. He hopes she gets some sleep at some point as well, thanks her profusely, again, says and he’ll meet her at the shop tomorrow.
Persephone drops some ivy into the spray and folds her arms, smiling. She’ll need to place it of course, but is pleased with how it came out. She hopes he is— they are she corrects herself.
Persephone checks her phone. 5% battery from talking to him all night. Now that the spray is perfect, it’s 3 am. This isn’t the first time she’s stayed late. Last June she and Demeter had worked ‘til dawn assembling the piecemeal parts of an eight foot tall flower ring arbor the bride saw on Instagram the day before the wedding and just had to have. They charged bridezilla accordingly and pinned a ‘closed for the day’ note on the door the next morning. She locks up, stalks down the street with her keys between her fingers and reaches the stairs of her walk up. Persephone closes the door, and peels off her clothes then crashes on the bed, making sure she sets her alarm.
Sleep feels like a blink. Persephone wakes up and showers, throws on a simple black dress and flats, swills yesterday’s room temperature coffee, and walks the block to the store. She smells cigar smoke and bacon, and hears distorted salsa blaring from a cheap battery operated radio. Helios is already on his balcony.
She opens the shop door and gathers up her flowers, the wreath, then just as 7:59 turned to 8:00 a black sedan, sleek and expensive, rolls up to the shop door.
Even though there isn’t any real traffic around for three blocks, and won’t be until the downtown shops open, Hades throws on the emergency flashers. He pops the trunk and grins at the artful arrangement, yards better than most of the others he’s seen, and helps her gently settle the flowers for the ride. She opens the passenger side and he shuts it after her. No sooner has she fastened her seatbelt and he’s roaring down the mist covered street.
She remembered to lock the door, right? Of course she did. She always does this and every time she goes back to check it’s locked. Besides, they’re already on the main drag. The tracks are below the bridge. Not much further. Persephone settles back into the heated leather seat and stifles a yawn then jokes about how he kept her up late.
When he picks up speed and thumbs the overdrive button, Hades glances for a moment at her calf and the small flower garland tattoo ringing her ankle, just above her simple flats. He refocuses on the road. Hades thanks her again, that he’s grateful to have her— have her hard work. She smiles, drowsy, and he turns on the wipers to clear the fog. They sit in comfortable silence the rest of the way.
Demeter turns her key in the lock at her store and the door opens too easily. Was it unlocked all night? That’s not like Persephone. She hasn’t forgotten the lock up since she was seventeen, and always double checks it, pushes back on the door to make sure the bolt has caught.
She throws open the door. Scattered flowers lay here and there, emptied buckets where roses once sat, one overturned. She runs over to the till. All the cash is there. She grabs the phone and dials Persephone’s cell. It goes to message. She redials. Straight to voicemail again. She might have fallen asleep in back. Demeter calls out for her. Nothing. She has half an hour before the shop opens. Demeter jogs down the block and turns into the atrium of Persephone’s walk up, then vaults up the stairs. The door is locked and it looks empty. She bangs on the door and calls for Persephone, then pulls out her cellphone and tries her daughter’s phone again. Voicemail.
Panic turns to alarm. Flowers scattered everywhere in the shop and no Persephone. Where is her daughter?
😲🥺… then what happened?
@thelampades
The phone rings in the empty shop. And rings. And rings. But Demeter isn’t there to pick up. The flowers will be delayed. Or never arrive— a full harvest of them undelivered.
Demeter frantically wanders up and down the street, banging on shop doors. On a cold morning like this, most retailers won’t open until 11:00, and all that greets her are darkened windows.
Helios barks at her over the balcony, asking what could be wrong this early in the morning. She blurts out around tears that the door to the shop was left unlocked and that she can’t find Persephone, and there were flowers scattered around and—
The old man waves her off and says that he saw Persephone hurry into a black car with the engine still running, that a man shut the door after her and they sped off. At 8 in the morning! 8 o’clock!
And how was she? Well, he didn’t see. Just heard the screech of the car as it pulled away. When he tells her not to worry about it, when he says that the man who took her looked like he had money, she wants to climb the brick façade with her bare fucking hands and smash his blaring radio. Instead of arguing with him she huffs off and knocks on the bakery’s glass door.
Metaneira’s day has already started and ended. Every morning she gets up at 3 am to take the proofed loaves out of the fridge. By 4:30 they’re in the oven and from then until sunrise she’s sweating to get the commercial orders packed for Celeus and their pile of kids to drive to all the fancy brunch places in the county. Which means the front door is always locked so she can attend to deliveries out the back. So when she hears the glass rattle she ignores it and keeps her head down. Making eye contact with the idiot who can’t bother to read the hours or the bright white ‘Closed’ sign right in front of their face will just make it worse. When the rattle doesn’t stop, Metaneira casts a glare at the door, angry fist clutching her bread lame. Her face softens when she sees that it’s Demeter and quickens her step to unlock it and let her in.
Across town, the pall bearers are reverently taking the casket from the hearse and up the church steps. Persephone tries to remain somber at Hades’s side but can’t help her giddiness over how well received the surprise arrangement was. The widow had hugged her, had cried against her shoulder and thanked her profusely. She confesses her late husband gave her irises on their second date. How had Persephone known?
Charon sits quietly in the drivers seat of the hearse. He was the only one of the three of them who looked well rested enough to drive today, even though he still has a “client” back at the parlor waiting to be embalmed. He’d grumbled about it, and Hades had flicked him a penny, snarking about it being a down payment on his impending overtime. When Persephone makes eye contact with Charon, he merely smiles at her, then drifts back to his phone, waiting for the next leg of the journey— the procession to the final resting place.
They walk into the church and Persephone quickly crosses herself— wait, did she do it backwards? Was it disrespectful to cross herself if she’s not— she blinks long, stifles another yawn. Hades places a gentle hand on her shoulder and asks if she wants a ride back during mass. She doesn’t want him to have to duck out and if he’s late back, who would direct the procession?
Persephone insists she stay until it’s over. As they place the man’s picture in the wreath of her white roses at the altar, she thinks back to how many haughty clients she’s smiled through, how many demands she’s endured, the thankless nights and days doing what she loves. But here every memory is sung and cared for, every lily is a star piercing the dark, a hope against the inevitable, the inexorable. Hades stands beside her, black wool coat still dewy from the morning air when he directed arrangements inside, doled out printed programs. Her pinky brushes against the back of his hand and she’s surprised it’s so warm. Persephone feels him tense in response, and flinches, but his thumb moves to her palm, then long fingers close softly around hers. They listen as the priest speaks about the man’s life, and as the first eulogy ends she feels a tear slip down her cheek. Before Persephone has time to wipe it away he’s already holding a folded handkerchief for her. She accepts, meets his gaze.
Hades has seen this a thousand times. A thousand funeral rites across a dozen confident faiths, but her compassion for those she hasn’t yet met let’s him see it through new eyes.
She accepts the crisp linen square and blots her eyes, then holds it, unsure if she should give it back, or if that would be unsanitary. Her hands are both occupied, one clenching the handkerchief, the other being… caressed? by his fingers— a softness that sends a pleasant shiver up her spine. He seems unmoved by the words from the pulpit, probably having heard a variation on them every other day going back who knows how many years. No pockets on her dress. She can’t just hold the square forever. Will he thinks it’s gross if she hands it back to him? She waits until he isn’t looking and tucks it discretely into the side of her bra. Her eyes widen when they catch his and she stares forward, biting her lips, cheeks and ears turning red, her other hand still caught in his.
He can’t hide the smile creeping across his face no matter how hard he tries. He’s supposed to be somber. Respectful. But all he can think about is where she just tucked away his handkerchief, the way her black dress rests on her hips, her thorn-pricked rough fingers held in his hand, the flower tattoo on her ankle he tried not to memorize… He has to snap out of it. There’s business to attend, and Hecate and her catering are waiting back at the parlor.
@therkalexander i beg you, continue it!! I need to know what happens next!!!
Kallithoe, one of Metaneira’s daughters, pulls out the commercial standing mixer, then empties gelatin and glycerin into the bowl to form the fondant roses. The wedding’s at three, drop off at one, and two hours left to apply the roses and finish the wedding cake.
Demeter sits with Metaneira, holding 18 month old Demophon, the latest addition to her friend’s brood. While Demeter cried, Metaneira had put Kleisidike in charge of the oranais aux abricots so she could get the word out about Persephone’s disappearance.
The phone rings. Everyone glances at it expectantly.
When Metaneira picks up, her eyes go wide. It’s Iris, Hera’s assistant, and the girl’s wedding coordinator boss is… upset, to put it mildly. The flowers should have been there an hour ago and Demeter isn’t picking up. Metaneira mouths who it is and Demeter shakes her head. Everything comes spilling out of Metaneira’s mouth into the receiver, interrupting Iris.
They both hear the punctuated ‘what?!’ from across the room on Iris’s side of the line, through the receiver, across the table, over the whir of the mixer. Then shuffling for control of the phone in the background, and now Hera’s on the line peppering Metaneira with with questions and saying that she’s calling the police if they haven’t already. Or the mayor. Or the head of the chamber of commerce… Demeter grabs the phone out of Metaneira’s hand and speaks directly to Hera to calm her down. No, that won’t be necessary. Do not call the cops. Or anyone else. She will find a way to get the flowers there. Celeus and Triptolemus come back from deliveries just in time to hear Demeter’s half of the phone call.
When Hera finally lets her hang up, Triptolemus tells Demeter not to worry— he and his dad have the flowers covered. They’ll get them there. Kalithoe pipes up and her brother tells her he’ll be back for the cake straight away.
The gray clouds part for an instant and Persephone is shaken awake again by the rubber scrape of the windshield wiper against bare glass. She uprights from when she had been leaning against his shoulder and swipes her fingers at the side of her mouth, hoping she wasn’t drooling. Or snoring. Hades insists that he take her back home. Charon scoffs from the front seat. They’re in a hearse. At the head of a funeral procession. There’s a coffin in the back! He laughs that they must have kept each other up very late for him to think that was even an option. Hades tries to avoid eye contact with Persephone and feels his ears turning red.
Houses disappear and they’re across the river, then uphill past row after row of headstones and crosses, a Victorian statue crumbling from 100 years of neglect, then more recently-placed flat granite markers. The car stops and they exit next to a pile of dirt covered with a velvety fake grass tarp.
The hillside is wind-whipped and the capped sleeves on her dress aren’t going to cut it. But a wool coat drapes over her shoulders immediately. She sinks into its warmth, and nods a silent thank you to Hades. He puts one hand on her back, the other in his pocket and they listen. Car doors shut, people trudge up the hill, pall bearers place the casket. After many tears and the first handful of dirt and falling lilies, the daughter breaks from her grieving mother to thank both Hades and Persephone, that she doesn’t know what they would have done without his help, and his wife’s lovely flowers.
His wife. Suddenly the coat is a furnace. Persephone starts to sputter a protest, but Hades calmly takes the woman’s hand and tells her it was the least he could do under the circumstances.
The first time he took her to the mortuary the silence was comfortable. Now it clings to everything. She’s still wearing his coat, filled with the scent of rain and cypress and earth. With him. Her mind runs away with her, flashes of fancy, of him holding her, of his warm voice in her ear. From above; from over her. She tries to banish that thought, and the accompanying flutter in her stomach that denial can barely explain away as hunger. She had coffee for breakfast, after all…
Hades clears his throat when they’re a block away and speaks quietly. He knows he’s in earshot of Charon and will never hear the end of it later, but says it anyway: that he didn’t know what he would have done without her. She glances up, eyes clear, locked with his, soft lips parted. Before he can say anymore or she can form an answer, the car lurches forward with the lock of the parking brake, and Charon throws open the door and stalks off chuckling to himself, the soft ring of the ajar door bell marking the seconds between Hades and Persephone.
He releases his seat belt and leaps out, holding the door for her. Persephone pulls his coat around her shoulders, knowing he’s going to take it back any moment. He doesn’t, car doors slam shut behind her, and they’re inside, then rounding the corner to his darkened office.
Hades doesn’t bother turning on the lamp. They’ll be gone in a moment. Persephone back to her world and him to his own. Better for her, safer for him, because every leaf and curl of that flower tattoo on her ankle is now emblazoned in his mind, and all the tempting madness that follows: how easily his hands could frame her waist and hips, the petal softness of her lips and throat… He curses quietly, looking for the keys to his car then remembers they’re in his coat pocket. On her. Hades turns to face her, a single rail of light from the hallway beyond meandering up her leg, curving over dress and collarbone from the crack of the door.
She feels the desk against the back of her thighs and he’s in front of her, the distance closing, his hand itching at his side. He is close enough that her knees almost bump his as she rests against the desk edge and tilts her head to meet his eyes.
He leans forward, his hand in his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the keys and her quivering leg on the other side of the satin lining. Her hand rests in the crook of his elbow, and she can feel his pulse drumming through his shirt sleeve. Words burn when they leave his throat. He needs to take her home.
His lips are inches from Persephone’s. She whispers back to him. She doesn’t want to leave.
@therkalexander Please write more, what happened next?
The idiot zone.
That’s what Artemis and Athena called it in college— the place every budding love affair briefly occupies before it’s requited… when fate bears down on two people like evening fog, obscuring what is clear to all but them. Insipid yearning. Timidity that vanishes the moment all is revealed and confessed.
That’s the split-second thought that quirks Persephone’s lips— lips now well occupied by his. Hades splays and tenses his fingers against her back and deepens their kiss, burning those contemplations to cinders. The coat slides from her shoulders and lands softly on the desk, muffling the fallen tumbler and scattered ball point pens.
Her body shakes and her skin prickles in its absence. Not because she’s cold— far from it— but because this is new. Different. Dangerous. Persephone’s only known him for 24 hours and now his leg is caught between hers, her fingers snaking up his neck and into his hair, body crushed to his. Her soul feels like it’s going to leap from her skin and wrap itself around his with how he’s kissing her.
It takes everything for Hades to keep himself from flying apart, to keep his hands in places deemed respectful while his body riots and begs him to trace and learn and love every curve of her, before she rethinks this. He’s a mortician. He disclosed all his emotional baggage to her. There must be lighter, easier, better prospects. But the way she kisses him, draws him in and holds him…
Past relationships have been brief. He doesn’t like wasting time or opening his heart to women who withdraw the moment they know what he does, or want him to ‘fix’ it, or in one disastrous case, fetishize his line of work.
With her rough fingers in his hair, her hand on his chest, over his heart, she banishes all that. This moment is only for her and her scent of roses, and admittedly stale coffee, which only endears her to him further. He wants these stolen seconds to last forever— a thought that renders him giddy and terrified in ways he didn’t think possible. But he needs to know. Hades needs to know that this isn’t a romance of a mere moment, that Persephone hasn’t been dragged into this by circumstance but wants it, needs him, chooses him. That she’ll come back.
Hades breaks off the kiss and meets her heavily lidded gaze in the sparse light and whispers her name as a question. Before he can even ask, she nods and answers, then pulls him back to her.
And it’s not in spite of who he is, or what he does, but because of it. She’s seen the compassion he has for those he’s only just met, guiding them through their darkest hour, and how his sense of what is just and right means more than what lands on a balance sheet. She recalls the mistaken comment made by the widow’s daughter and imagines if it came to pass: of her at his side, her arts blossoming to challenge the inexorability of death and celebrate the persistence of memory.
All these thoughts rush through her and it’s just a single kiss. Well, at this point a series of kisses. She breaks away and looks up wordlessly, tracing his jawline. Don’t get in too deep, she thinks. But depth and permanence are coiling around her in ways she’s never felt with other people. Why does this feel so natural with him?
He plants a soft peck on her cheek— a promise to speak on this later. Hades stands up, fixing his collar and tie and Persephone smooths the wrinkles out of her dress. She knows she’s flushed and about to leave a darkened private room with him for the reception, but everyone who met them today was already in on it long before they were. The idiot zone. She giggles quietly.
Hades shrugs his coat back on, filled with her scent, which will make it harder to conduct business out there. He returns her soft laughter, then hauls her against him and steals a last kiss. He deftly pulls his borrowed handkerchief out of the left side of her bra and— oh no, he shouldn’t have done that. Because Persephone’s little gasp at his trespass and the way she bites her lip right after are going to haunt Hades forever.
He turns on the lamp so no one suspects anything and she exits first, rounds the corner, and smells crudités dips and tiny quiches with bacon in them, empanadas, and salad dressing. Her stomach rumbles. Or lurches. Never mind it’s full of butterflies.
She hesitates. This is their food. But Hades reassures her, his hand resting comfortably at the small of her back instead of gingerly touching her shoulder like he did before she made out with him. She’s still light headed from it, and there’s few other words to describe it.
Hades motions to her, says he should’ve gotten something for her for breakfast. That she must be starving. Persephone gives him a half smile and says he can make breakfast for her another day, then grins when his eyes go wide for a moment.
She takes in the lay of the land. Red wine. Aranciata. Sparkling water. There’s the bite sized quiche. Made from scratch with puffy edges. These aren’t the frozen ones from the grocery store. And the green goddess dip for the jicama and carrots, and a lacinato kale salad with pomegranate seeds… the menu seems familiar.
She opts for the dark kale, but is too jumbled to eat it all. Persephone picks out and eats six pomegranate seeds to test the waters. If her stomach rebels, she won’t eat anymore.
Behind the tables is a server who worked for Hecate at a wedding a month ago. She’s known his boss for years…
Demeter at the flower shop, Metaneira and her bakery, Hecate with her catering, and Calliope who runs the letterpress printshop with her wife. They call themselves the Wedding Industrial Complex. If a newly-minted fiancée comes knocking at one of their doors, they’ll refer her along to the others and everyone gets paid.
…Askalaphos; that’s his name. Persephone had gone in to set up flowers, distribute bouquets and pin boutonnières for hungover groomsmen. The screech owl tat on Askalaphos’s neck is memorable, because some guest got pissy and he had to cover it up. Which was stupid, but the groom’s family was exceptionally stuffy. The kale salad with the lemon juice and sesame oil… Hecate’s specialty.
And sure enough there’s the ol’ kitchen witch herself, peering at each dish, silently directing a couple more servers to weave into the crowd and double back past the widow’s niece who is getting through today by eating her feelings. Hades waves her over and Hecate’s eyes go wide when she sees Persephone with him. She marches toward them.
Hades offers her cash in full with extra for her staff, but Hecate quiets him and stares as Persephone. She says this is the last place she expected to find her and asks if Persephone has any idea how many times Demeter has tried to get a hold of her. That Hecate didn’t even talk to Demeter herself, but to Metaneira, who was calling everyone because Persephone’s mother was beside herself. The upstairs neighbor said that she’d been whisked away in a big black car. That everyone thinks Persephone has gone missing or was abducted! There were flowers scattered everywhere in the shop and the front door left unlocked.
Persephone winces. She just knew she forgot to lock it, then knits her brow at Hecate. If her mother wanted to know where she was, she could have called—
Shit. Oh shit; her phone! She’d spent all night on it with Hades and forgot to plug it in. Persephone runs back to the office and opens her purse. Sure enough, the battery is dead, and has been for a while.
Hades follows behind her and asks if everything is alright. Persephone panics and he springs into action searching the file cabinet for his spare charge cable, as she digs through her purse for hers. Did he just call her sweetie when he told her everything would be okay? Hecate leans against the door frame, bemusedly watching them fumble around.
He slams a drawer shut and plugs in Persephone’s dead cellphone. They watch the charge symbol light up red and she fidgets. No time for this. Hades hands her the office phone receiver. Over the dial tone, she hears Hecate whistle at them from the doorway.
They need to take a moment and calm down. Collect themselves. Because they’re both going to have a lot to answer for.
corporeal-terrestrial:
therkalexander:
librarian-witchli...
There gotta be most Greek Myths peeps on Tumblr: what would be the best framing for a modern Hades and Persephone story
Demeter’s flower shop has been in her family for years. She trades off with Persephone between the front counter and the back room, just as she did with her mother, long ago. Persephone’s slated to take over the business one day, she just knows it, loves her work, loves the security of it, arranges irises and larkspur among the sprigs of baby’s breath and fern. She sings with her mom when Demeter is counting the till or sorting poppies. The same few playlists cycle over and over and Persephone makes Demeter laugh by parodying with her own often lewd verses. Her mom scolds her but can’t hide the mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes. And so this goes and has gone for all the years since college. But there’s a dread finality to all of it that makes Persephone lay awake at night, wasting time on her phone, or staring up through the skylight in her bedroom.
On the other side of town, Hades just received word that the family whose funeral is slated for tomorrow has had a complete cancellation of all their food, flowers, everything. Something about a maxed out credit card… At his mortuary. His. He can’t let that stand. Because he’s seen too many exhausted, shattered families, too many people who need to mourn, and mundane details of final expenses shouldn’t cloud their minds on a day like that. Any other businessman would politely turn them away. He should turn them away, but he doesn’t.
Cursing, and walking from store to store in the rain, he finally gets Hecate, one of the better caterers in town, to agree on short notice. He’ll pay her back— he’s not hurting for money. He’s already walked a mile and a wreath of roses is next. And he’s certainly not going to the bastards up the way who made the poor widow cry when they hung up on her this morning.
The bell above the door clangs, and Persephone doesn’t bother to look up from the narcissus she squeezes into the last spring wedding bouquet. It’s her mother, she figures, back from the next door bakery with their lunch. It isn’t until she hears a voice, edged with frustration and seriousness at first, but under the rough skin of it, softness as he describes the bind he’s in. He looms large in the doorway and he needs her.
Her help, rather. She swallows, remembering what her mom has always said. Net 30, and even that’s pushing it. Only with prior accounts, only with people from this side of town who we know, Persephone. It’s what Demeter’s always warned her about: getting in too deep, going off the books… the death of so many other small businesses in this economy. So it surprises her when she offers to create the arrangements for this dark stranger. And shocks her when she blurts out that she will deliver them herself, tomorrow, across the tracks. Her car’s overdue for an oil change and the starter that craps out when the weather gets too cold… and now she’s flush because she’s been talking out loud like an idiot.
He smiles. Briefly. And then comes his offer to pick her up. He stutters when she asks him to repeat it, and kicks himself. He’s waiting for her to decline and ask him to leave in that scared, polite tone that women use, because most men with an offer like that are dangerous. But she accepts. It’s impulsive, but seems like the most natural thing in the world that he’s going to just roll up in his chariot and bear her and her flowers to be arranged at a funeral without any warning. He clears his throat again and is gone, muttering that he’ll see her tomorrow, early. 8 o’clock sharp.
Demeter comes back 10 minutes later, unwrapping a sumptuous ham on rye, which they split. No one comes in on a rainy day, Demeter remarks. Persephone merely nods, her mouth full. She can’t tell her mom about how many white roses she’s going to give away. And what’s worse, Persephone realizes, she’ll have to stay late to finish it. More lies she’ll have to fix later. But she’ll tell Demeter when she gets back from the funeral home. After all, this is Persephone’s shop too, and it’s time to make an adult decision and sometimes compassion wins over rationality. Or at least that’s what she tells herself. His voice still hangs in the air, as does the scent of rain and cypress on his wool coat.
She’ll tell the truth when she gets back.
Please continue. 🥺🥺🥺😍😍😍
The rain lets up just as they finish the wedding bouquets. A few more customers, and another order for next week. Persephone stays to close after her mom walks the deposit to the bank. She dusts the counter half heartedly until Demeter is out of sight of the front window, then sweeps the door and walkway for ten minutes just in case her mother comes back. 5 o’clock and no sign of her.
Helios, the retiree living in the apartment above, waves at her and chews on a cigar. His skin is wrinkled from decades of sunbathing in his youth. Whenever it’s not raining, he’s sits on his balcony sunrise to sunset, the world coming and going and Helios seeming to know everyone in it. She chats for a bit, then politely reminds him that she has to close the store.
Persephone locks the door and sighs. She pulls a styrofoam ring mold from the top shelf. They usually don’t do funerals. Remembrance planters, yes. Full funerals? Rarely. Her grandmother’s arrangement was the last one she’d done. And that was during college. The fridge is freezing, and her teeth chatter as she gathers a dozen bushels of roses. White, as requested.
And then the phone rings.
The old tape answering machine has been there for 30 years and served them well, weeding out sales and robocalls. And if it ain’t broke… “You’ve reached Gaia’s Flowers; our hours are 9 to 5 Tuesday through Sunday and our last delivery is at 4 pm. Please leave a message.” She hears a throat clearing on the line and a low, familiar voice hesitantly starts speaking.
It’s him. Persephone bolts for the phone and picks up. She hears feedback, apologizes, fumbles to turn off the answering machine and finally says her name. He asks if she’s the one he talked to this afternoon. When she affirms, he starts to apologize, saying he hadn’t even introduced himself and had barged in, and put her on the spot. He says don’t bother about the flowers. Worried, she asks if he’s found someone else. He sighs and says no, heavily. She insists. It’s a practicality at this point. You can’t have a funeral without flowers. Besides… she’s already started. Can she call him back? She needs to keep the store line free just in case. Persephone jots down his number. An Olympia prefix. Odd. Still no name.
She punches it into her cell, turns on the speaker and tucks her phone into the side of her bra so she can work on the arrangement hands free. In her mind Persephone hears her mother’s voice clucking about breast cancer from cellphone radiation or whatever as his phone rings.
In his dim office, far from the muted voices and tears of the vigil, Hades hears a buzzing and winces. Shit. He gave her his private phone. Not the business line as he should have, but his mobile. He debates whether or not he should answer it. Her voice blurts as soon as he hits the button, asking for his name. He gives it and launches back into his apology.
Persephone accepts it and said she wanted to help because he looked desperate. He agrees, and thanks her. They carry on, much to his surprise. He usually hates talking on the phone. She tells him more about her shop, and he about how he came to run a mortuary. She brings up the Olympia prefix, and asks if she’ll be driving all the way there. He pinches his nose and offers that he was tired and just defaulted to his cell, and no, his business isn’t 50 miles away. She titters and asks him how he likes their humble town and he tells her that yes, he came from privilege, but ghosted his toxic father years ago and fixed the damage in therapy. He’s unsure why he’s offering all these details to a woman he barely knows.
His profession is creepy enough to outsiders as it is, and at this point Hades is fairly certain she’s about to hang up, thinking he’s a serial killer. He’s no good on the phone… but she stays, chats with him, talks about her great relationship with her mom, her non-existent one with her dad, and each interrupts the call when she needs to dig more flowers out of the back or when he needs to close up after the wake.
It’s past midnight and still they talk. It would have taken her half this time if she wasn’t so… pleasantly distracted. The wreath is finished, but she wants to do more. Her grandmother’s casket was covered in the loveliest crescent spray of flowers, with lilies and roses, larkspur and irises. Persephone preempts him, says it’s free of charge, that she needs the practice as she rarely does casket sprays.
Hades wants to protest, but knows it won’t work on her. He laughs. For the first time in a while. He wants to stay on the phone with her but needs to rest before tomorrow. He hopes she gets some sleep at some point as well, thanks her profusely, again, says and he’ll meet her at the shop tomorrow.
Persephone drops some ivy into the spray and folds her arms, smiling. She’ll need to place it of course, but is pleased with how it came out. She hopes he is— they are she corrects herself.
Persephone checks her phone. 5% battery from talking to him all night. Now that the spray is perfect, it’s 3 am. This isn’t the first time she’s stayed late. Last June she and Demeter had worked ‘til dawn assembling the piecemeal parts of an eight foot tall flower ring arbor the bride saw on Instagram the day before the wedding and just had to have. They charged bridezilla accordingly and pinned a ‘closed for the day’ note on the door the next morning. She locks up, stalks down the street with her keys between her fingers and reaches the stairs of her walk up. Persephone closes the door, and peels off her clothes then crashes on the bed, making sure she sets her alarm.
Sleep feels like a blink. Persephone wakes up and showers, throws on a simple black dress and flats, swills yesterday’s room temperature coffee, and walks the block to the store. She smells cigar smoke and bacon, and hears distorted salsa blaring from a cheap battery operated radio. Helios is already on his balcony.
She opens the shop door and gathers up her flowers, the wreath, then just as 7:59 turned to 8:00 a black sedan, sleek and expensive, rolls up to the shop door.
Even though there isn’t any real traffic around for three blocks, and won’t be until the downtown shops open, Hades throws on the emergency flashers. He pops the trunk and grins at the artful arrangement, yards better than most of the others he’s seen, and helps her gently settle the flowers for the ride. She opens the passenger side and he shuts it after her. No sooner has she fastened her seatbelt and he’s roaring down the mist covered street.
She remembered to lock the door, right? Of course she did. She always does this and every time she goes back to check it’s locked. Besides, they’re already on the main drag. The tracks are below the bridge. Not much further. Persephone settles back into the heated leather seat and stifles a yawn then jokes about how he kept her up late.
When he picks up speed and thumbs the overdrive button, Hades glances for a moment at her calf and the small flower garland tattoo ringing her ankle, just above her simple flats. He refocuses on the road. Hades thanks her again, that he’s grateful to have her— have her hard work. She smiles, drowsy, and he turns on the wipers to clear the fog. They sit in comfortable silence the rest of the way.
Demeter turns her key in the lock at her store and the door opens too easily. Was it unlocked all night? That’s not like Persephone. She hasn’t forgotten the lock up since she was seventeen, and always double checks it, pushes back on the door to make sure the bolt has caught.
She throws open the door. Scattered flowers lay here and there, emptied buckets where roses once sat, one overturned. She runs over to the till. All the cash is there. She grabs the phone and dials Persephone’s cell. It goes to message. She redials. Straight to voicemail again. She might have fallen asleep in back. Demeter calls out for her. Nothing. She has half an hour before the shop opens. Demeter jogs down the block and turns into the atrium of Persephone’s walk up, then vaults up the stairs. The door is locked and it looks empty. She bangs on the door and calls for Persephone, then pulls out her cellphone and tries her daughter’s phone again. Voicemail.
Panic turns to alarm. Flowers scattered everywhere in the shop and no Persephone. Where is her daughter?
😲🥺… then what happened?
@thelampades
The phone rings in the empty shop. And rings. And rings. But Demeter isn’t there to pick up. The flowers will be delayed. Or never arrive— a full harvest of them undelivered.
Demeter frantically wanders up and down the street, banging on shop doors. On a cold morning like this, most retailers won’t open until 11:00, and all that greets her are darkened windows.
Helios barks at her over the balcony, asking what could be wrong this early in the morning. She blurts out around tears that the door to the shop was left unlocked and that she can’t find Persephone, and there were flowers scattered around and—
The old man waves her off and says that he saw Persephone hurry into a black car with the engine still running, that a man shut the door after her and they sped off. At 8 in the morning! 8 o’clock!
And how was she? Well, he didn’t see. Just heard the screech of the car as it pulled away. When he tells her not to worry about it, when he says that the man who took her looked like he had money, she wants to climb the brick façade with her bare fucking hands and smash his blaring radio. Instead of arguing with him she huffs off and knocks on the bakery’s glass door.
Metaneira’s day has already started and ended. Every morning she gets up at 3 am to take the proofed loaves out of the fridge. By 4:30 they’re in the oven and from then until sunrise she’s sweating to get the commercial orders packed for Celeus and their pile of kids to drive to all the fancy brunch places in the county. Which means the front door is always locked so she can attend to deliveries out the back. So when she hears the glass rattle she ignores it and keeps her head down. Making eye contact with the idiot who can’t bother to read the hours or the bright white ‘Closed’ sign right in front of their face will just make it worse. When the rattle doesn’t stop, Metaneira casts a glare at the door, angry fist clutching her bread lame. Her face softens when she sees that it’s Demeter and quickens her step to unlock it and let her in.
Across town, the pall bearers are reverently taking the casket from the hearse and up the church steps. Persephone tries to remain somber at Hades’s side but can’t help her giddiness over how well received the surprise arrangement was. The widow had hugged her, had cried against her shoulder and thanked her profusely. She confesses her late husband gave her irises on their second date. How had Persephone known?
Charon sits quietly in the drivers seat of the hearse. He was the only one of the three of them who looked well rested enough to drive today, even though he still has a “client” back at the parlor waiting to be embalmed. He’d grumbled about it, and Hades had flicked him a penny, snarking about it being a down payment on his impending overtime. When Persephone makes eye contact with Charon, he merely smiles at her, then drifts back to his phone, waiting for the next leg of the journey— the procession to the final resting place.
They walk into the church and Persephone quickly crosses herself— wait, did she do it backwards? Was it disrespectful to cross herself if she’s not— she blinks long, stifles another yawn. Hades places a gentle hand on her shoulder and asks if she wants a ride back during mass. She doesn’t want him to have to duck out and if he’s late back, who would direct the procession?
Persephone insists she stay until it’s over. As they place the man’s picture in the wreath of her white roses at the altar, she thinks back to how many haughty clients she’s smiled through, how many demands she’s endured, the thankless nights and days doing what she loves. But here every memory is sung and cared for, every lily is a star piercing the dark, a hope against the inevitable, the inexorable. Hades stands beside her, black wool coat still dewy from the morning air when he directed arrangements inside, doled out printed programs. Her pinky brushes against the back of his hand and she’s surprised it’s so warm. Persephone feels him tense in response, and flinches, but his thumb moves to her palm, then long fingers close softly around hers. They listen as the priest speaks about the man’s life, and as the first eulogy ends she feels a tear slip down her cheek. Before Persephone has time to wipe it away he’s already holding a folded handkerchief for her. She accepts, meets his gaze.
Hades has seen this a thousand times. A thousand funeral rites across a dozen confident faiths, but her compassion for those she hasn’t yet met let’s him see it through new eyes.
She accepts the crisp linen square and blots her eyes, then holds it, unsure if she should give it back, or if that would be unsanitary. Her hands are both occupied, one clenching the handkerchief, the other being… caressed? by his fingers— a softness that sends a pleasant shiver up her spine. He seems unmoved by the words from the pulpit, probably having heard a variation on them every other day going back who knows how many years. No pockets on her dress. She can’t just hold the square forever. Will he thinks it’s gross if she hands it back to him? She waits until he isn’t looking and tucks it discretely into the side of her bra. Her eyes widen when they catch his and she stares forward, biting her lips, cheeks and ears turning red, her other hand still caught in his.
He can’t hide the smile creeping across his face no matter how hard he tries. He’s supposed to be somber. Respectful. But all he can think about is where she just tucked away his handkerchief, the way her black dress rests on her hips, her thorn-pricked rough fingers held in his hand, the flower tattoo on her ankle he tried not to memorize… He has to snap out of it. There’s business to attend, and Hecate and her catering are waiting back at the parlor.
@therkalexander i beg you, continue it!! I need to know what happens next!!!
Kallithoe, one of Metaneira’s daughters, pulls out the commercial standing mixer, then empties gelatin and glycerin into the bowl to form the fondant roses. The wedding’s at three, drop off at one, and two hours left to apply the roses and finish the wedding cake.
Demeter sits with Metaneira, holding 18 month old Demophon, the latest addition to her friend’s brood. While Demeter cried, Metaneira had put Kleisidike in charge of the oranais aux abricots so she could get the word out about Persephone’s disappearance.
The phone rings. Everyone glances at it expectantly.
When Metaneira picks up, her eyes go wide. It’s Iris, Hera’s assistant, and the girl’s wedding coordinator boss is… upset, to put it mildly. The flowers should have been there an hour ago and Demeter isn’t picking up. Metaneira mouths who it is and Demeter shakes her head. Everything comes spilling out of Metaneira’s mouth into the receiver, interrupting Iris.
They both hear the punctuated ‘what?!’ from across the room on Iris’s side of the line, through the receiver, across the table, over the whir of the mixer. Then shuffling for control of the phone in the background, and now Hera’s on the line peppering Metaneira with with questions and saying that she’s calling the police if they haven’t already. Or the mayor. Or the head of the chamber of commerce… Demeter grabs the phone out of Metaneira’s hand and speaks directly to Hera to calm her down. No, that won’t be necessary. Do not call the cops. Or anyone else. She will find a way to get the flowers there. Celeus and Triptolemus come back from deliveries just in time to hear Demeter’s half of the phone call.
When Hera finally lets her hang up, Triptolemus tells Demeter not to worry— he and his dad have the flowers covered. They’ll get them there. Kalithoe pipes up and her brother tells her he’ll be back for the cake straight away.
The gray clouds part for an instant and Persephone is shaken awake again by the rubber scrape of the windshield wiper against bare glass. She uprights from when she had been leaning against his shoulder and swipes her fingers at the side of her mouth, hoping she wasn’t drooling. Or snoring. Hades insists that he take her back home. Charon scoffs from the front seat. They’re in a hearse. At the head of a funeral procession. There’s a coffin in the back! He laughs that they must have kept each other up very late for him to think that was even an option. Hades tries to avoid eye contact with Persephone and feels his ears turning red.
Houses disappear and they’re across the river, then uphill past row after row of headstones and crosses, a Victorian statue crumbling from 100 years of neglect, then more recently-placed flat granite markers. The car stops and they exit next to a pile of dirt covered with a velvety fake grass tarp.
The hillside is wind-whipped and the capped sleeves on her dress aren’t going to cut it. But a wool coat drapes over her shoulders immediately. She sinks into its warmth, and nods a silent thank you to Hades. He puts one hand on her back, the other in his pocket and they listen. Car doors shut, people trudge up the hill, pall bearers place the casket. After many tears and the first handful of dirt and falling lilies, the daughter breaks from her grieving mother to thank both Hades and Persephone, that she doesn’t know what they would have done without his help, and his wife’s lovely flowers.
His wife. Suddenly the coat is a furnace. Persephone starts to sputter a protest, but Hades calmly takes the woman’s hand and tells her it was the least he could do under the circumstances.
The first time he took her to the mortuary the silence was comfortable. Now it clings to everything. She’s still wearing his coat, filled with the scent of rain and cypress and earth. With him. Her mind runs away with her, flashes of fancy, of him holding her, of his warm voice in her ear. From above; from over her. She tries to banish that thought, and the accompanying flutter in her stomach that denial can barely explain away as hunger. She had coffee for breakfast, after all…
Hades clears his throat when they’re a block away and speaks quietly. He knows he’s in earshot of Charon and will never hear the end of it later, but says it anyway: that he didn’t know what he would have done without her. She glances up, eyes clear, locked with his, soft lips parted. Before he can say anymore or she can form an answer, the car lurches forward with the lock of the parking brake, and Charon throws open the door and stalks off chuckling to himself, the soft ring of the ajar door bell marking the seconds between Hades and Persephone.
He releases his seat belt and leaps out, holding the door for her. Persephone pulls his coat around her shoulders, knowing he’s going to take it back any moment. He doesn’t, car doors slam shut behind her, and they’re inside, then rounding the corner to his darkened office.
Hades doesn’t bother turning on the lamp. They’ll be gone in a moment. Persephone back to her world and him to his own. Better for her, safer for him, because every leaf and curl of that flower tattoo on her ankle is now emblazoned in his mind, and all the tempting madness that follows: how easily his hands could frame her waist and hips, the petal softness of her lips and throat… He curses quietly, looking for the keys to his car then remembers they’re in his coat pocket. On her. Hades turns to face her, a single rail of light from the hallway beyond meandering up her leg, curving over dress and collarbone from the crack of the door.
She feels the desk against the back of her thighs and he’s in front of her, the distance closing, his hand itching at his side. He is close enough that her knees almost bump his as she rests against the desk edge and tilts her head to meet his eyes.
He leans forward, his hand in his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the keys and her quivering leg on the other side of the satin lining. Her hand rests in the crook of his elbow, and she can feel his pulse drumming through his shirt sleeve. Words burn when they leave his throat. He needs to take her home.
His lips are inches from Persephone’s. She whispers back to him. She doesn’t want to leave.
@therkalexander Please write more, what happened next?
The idiot zone.
That’s what Artemis and Athena called it in college— the place every budding love affair briefly occupies before it’s requited… when fate bears down on two people like evening fog, obscuring what is clear to all but them. Insipid yearning. Timidity that vanishes the moment all is revealed and confessed.
That’s the split-second thought that quirks Persephone’s lips— lips now well occupied by his. Hades splays and tenses his fingers against her back and deepens their kiss, burning those contemplations to cinders. The coat slides from her shoulders and lands softly on the desk, muffling the fallen tumbler and scattered ball point pens.
Her body shakes and her skin prickles in its absence. Not because she’s cold— far from it— but because this is new. Different. Dangerous. Persephone’s only known him for 24 hours and now his leg is caught between hers, her fingers snaking up his neck and into his hair, body crushed to his. Her soul feels like it’s going to leap from her skin and wrap itself around his with how he’s kissing her.
It takes everything for Hades to keep himself from flying apart, to keep his hands in places deemed respectful while his body riots and begs him to trace and learn and love every curve of her, before she rethinks this. He’s a mortician. He disclosed all his emotional baggage to her. There must be lighter, easier, better prospects. But the way she kisses him, draws him in and holds him…
Past relationships have been brief. He doesn’t like wasting time or opening his heart to women who withdraw the moment they know what he does, or want him to ‘fix’ it, or in one disastrous case, fetishize his line of work.
With her rough fingers in his hair, her hand on his chest, over his heart, she banishes all that. This moment is only for her and her scent of roses, and admittedly stale coffee, which only endears her to him further. He wants these stolen seconds to last forever— a thought that renders him giddy and terrified in ways he didn’t think possible. But he needs to know. Hades needs to know that this isn’t a romance of a mere moment, that Persephone hasn’t been dragged into this by circumstance but wants it, needs him, chooses him. That she’ll come back.
Hades breaks off the kiss and meets her heavily lidded gaze in the sparse light and whispers her name as a question. Before he can even ask, she nods and answers, then pulls him back to her.
And it’s not in spite of who he is, or what he does, but because of it. She’s seen the compassion he has for those he’s only just met, guiding them through their darkest hour, and how his sense of what is just and right means more than what lands on a balance sheet. She recalls the mistaken comment made by the widow’s daughter and imagines if it came to pass: of her at his side, her arts blossoming to challenge the inexorability of death and celebrate the persistence of memory.
All these thoughts rush through her and it’s just a single kiss. Well, at this point a series of kisses. She breaks away and looks up wordlessly, tracing his jawline. Don’t get in too deep, she thinks. But depth and permanence are coiling around her in ways she’s never felt with other people. Why does this feel so natural with him?
He plants a soft peck on her cheek— a promise to speak on this later. Hades stands up, fixing his collar and tie and Persephone smooths the wrinkles out of her dress. She knows she’s flushed and about to leave a darkened private room with him for the reception, but everyone who met them today was already in on it long before they were. The idiot zone. She giggles quietly.
Hades shrugs his coat back on, filled with her scent, which will make it harder to conduct business out there. He returns her soft laughter, then hauls her against him and steals a last kiss. He deftly pulls his borrowed handkerchief out of the left side of her bra and— oh no, he shouldn’t have done that. Because Persephone’s little gasp at his trespass and the way she bites her lip right after are going to haunt Hades forever.
He turns on the lamp so no one suspects anything and she exits first, rounds the corner, and smells crudités dips and tiny quiches with bacon in them, empanadas, and salad dressing. Her stomach rumbles. Or lurches. Never mind it’s full of butterflies.
She hesitates. This is their food. But Hades reassures her, his hand resting comfortably at the small of her back instead of gingerly touching her shoulder like he did before she made out with him. She’s still light headed from it, and there’s few other words to describe it.
Hades motions to her, says he should’ve gotten something for her for breakfast. That she must be starving. Persephone gives him a half smile and says he can make breakfast for her another day, then grins when his eyes go wide for a moment.
She takes in the lay of the land. Red wine. Aranciata. Sparkling water. There’s the bite sized quiche. Made from scratch with puffy edges. These aren’t the frozen ones from the grocery store. And the green goddess dip for the jicama and carrots, and a lacinato kale salad with pomegranate seeds… the menu seems familiar.
She opts for the dark kale, but is too jumbled to eat it all. Persephone picks out and eats six pomegranate seeds to test the waters. If her stomach rebels, she won’t eat anymore.
Behind the tables is a server who worked for Hecate at a wedding a month ago. She’s known his boss for years…
Demeter at the flower shop, Metaneira and her bakery, Hecate with her catering, and Calliope who runs the letterpress printshop with her wife. They call themselves the Wedding Industrial Complex. If a newly-minted fiancée comes knocking at one of their doors, they’ll refer her along to the others and everyone gets paid.
…Askalaphos; that’s his name. Persephone had gone in to set up flowers, distribute bouquets and pin boutonnières for hungover groomsmen. The screech owl tat on Askalaphos’s neck is memorable, because some guest got pissy and he had to cover it up. Which was stupid, but the groom’s family was exceptionally stuffy. The kale salad with the lemon juice and sesame oil… Hecate’s specialty.
And sure enough there’s the ol’ kitchen witch herself, peering at each dish, silently directing a couple more servers to weave into the crowd and double back past the widow’s niece who is getting through today by eating her feelings. Hades waves her over and Hecate’s eyes go wide when she sees Persephone with him. She marches toward them.
Hades offers her cash in full with extra for her staff, but Hecate quiets him and stares as Persephone. She says this is the last place she expected to find her and asks if Persephone has any idea how many times Demeter has tried to get a hold of her. That Hecate didn’t even talk to Demeter herself, but to Metaneira, who was calling everyone because Persephone’s mother was beside herself. The upstairs neighbor said that she’d been whisked away in a big black car. That everyone thinks Persephone has gone missing or was abducted! There were flowers scattered everywhere in the shop and the front door left unlocked.
Persephone winces. She just knew she forgot to lock it, then knits her brow at Hecate. If her mother wanted to know where she was, she could have called—
Shit. Oh shit; her phone! She’d spent all night on it with Hades and forgot to plug it in. Persephone runs back to the office and opens her purse. Sure enough, the battery is dead, and has been for a while.
Hades follows behind her and asks if everything is alright. Persephone panics and he springs into action searching the file cabinet for his spare charge cable, as she digs through her purse for hers. Did he just call her sweetie when he told her everything would be okay? Hecate leans against the door frame, bemusedly watching them fumble around.
He slams a drawer shut and plugs in Persephone’s dead cellphone. They watch the charge symbol light up red and she fidgets. No time for this. Hades hands her the office phone receiver. Over the dial tone, she hears Hecate whistle at them from the doorway.
They need to take a moment and calm down. Collect themselves. Because they’re both going to have a lot to answer for.
