Hades knew that it was coming. Every day, seeing her in the morning, watching her pallid cheeks slowly turn rosy, before selfishly kissing both of them, waking her up, he smirked as he thought: “Sooner... Rather sooner than later. Someone will come begging her to become his trophy. Begging me to let it happen.”
Someone came, indeed, just after the winter started. Someone who didn’t carry a lire or any other instrument. But his words. Hades watched his lips without having to hear every beautifully arranged rhyme which, predictably, was only uttered to tell Persephone that she didn’t have to be imprisoned and tormented here. That everything and everyone misses her there, up on top. That the gods will protect her, if only to see what happens if people finally have eternal summer. That...
Persephone stays silent as he goes on about how many lives she could have saved and fixed by leaving this place forever. By sealing the tunnel that leads to hell. By...
“Get out,” - she says, in a steely, sharp whisper. Hades feels close to flinching. The poet turns around and runs, as if it is Cerberus, not faint echo, that chases after him. Silence returns, and settles near her feet, unnoticed and somewhat resembling white evening fog.
“Why?” - he asks her in the evening, sounding indifferent and way too quiet to feel that way.
“You do know, dearest,” - she smiles, glancing at him from the mirror where she’s brushing her hair.
“Not really,” - Hades frowns to conceal a sudden pang of warm, tender feeling somewhere in his chest. - “I thought you liked your... Little vacations.”
“I do,” - she whispers, ever so gently, quietly moving over to sit in his lap and stroke his cheek. - “And to me, that paradise of a season and feeling your love are entirely... Equipollent”.
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