Persephone

IX

"She is ..."

"Yes."

There was silence as Charon looked at his friend uneasily.

"But my Lord -"

"I know," Hades sighed, planting his face into the soft plumage of his avian robes, bestowed by Anthus millennia ago now, and groaned.

"I don't know what possessed me."

His head rose suddenly, shaggy black curls bouncing around animately. He was in need of some grooming.

"I bet it's those damned Moirai," he seethed, teeth clenched together, eyes narrowed, irritation settling in his soul before making way for resignation again. "They always have something ... inconvenient planned, especially for me."

He looked up at Charon, seated in the carved ebony chair, laying his aged and withered limbs on the armrest, gazing down at his lord amusedly. They had long passed the point in their relationship of embarrassment in front of one another.

"What do I do?" he pleaded, running his rough, calloused fingers through his hair. "Charon, what do I do?"

The ferryman simply smiled, and looked down, chuckling silently to himself as he considered his master's plight.

"Well," he began, his worn voice transforming into a youthful one with the promise of laughter, "you could ask her to leave."

Hades moaned again. "I can't, I've already told her she can stay, and I never have been able to go back on my word."

He winced, before murmuring with an unpleasant smile, "But you know that."

Charon inclined his head, before speaking again.

"Or," he replied, turning his amaurotic scrutiny to the poor, debilitated king lying on the cold stone floor, eyes raised in indecisive grief. The blind man could almost feel his ears lean forward in suspenseful anxiousness.

"You could allow her to stay. Send a message to Zeus, explain the situation - and leave it to the Olympians."

He shook a hand through his hair again, a nervous habit he'd never quite been able to break. There was a silence as the Lord of the Dead tried to navigate his way around the snares and traps of his mind.

"They won't allow it," he muttered, drawing circles and whirls idly with his finger over his cheek, before rising abruptly to his feet and marching over to the small, intimate block of granite which served as a table for when he very rarely took meals. A bouquet of pomegranates lay sprawled haphazardly over the surface, and he grabbed one, tossing it up and down absent-mindedly before sinking his teeth into it, peeling away the skin and creating an opening in the pink flesh. He continued to peel the fruit, staring into oblivion as he allowed his thoughts to wander, hands relying on the muscle memory to obtain the tart jewels within.

"They wouldn't allow it."

He dropped the shell of the fruit on the stone, before licking his fingers distractedly, now stained with red and collapsing in the only other chair in the room. He blew a breath out from his nostrils and closed his eyes.

"Demeter will call soon."

"I know."

There was silence following this affirmation of his fear, and Charon tapped a soft rhythm he'd heard long ago in the days of his youth. It was comforting, this silence. The sound of two friends mulling over a ghastly situation, flanked by the age old feeling of uncertainty.

"I -"

He stopped, lips twitching as he rolled the words over his tongue, knowing that once they were said he could never take them back.

"I don't want her to go."

Charon smiled, and replied, "Well in that case, my lord, I do believe you are very lucky."

Hades looked up at this, his brow furrowed. Charon laughed quietly again.

"If she had wanted to go, nothing, neither the power of the Underworld nor Olympus, could have stopped her."

Hades chuckled, looking down at his bloody hands. He would need to wash.

"She is so ... vibrant," he mumbled, rubbing his fingers together, attempting to scrape the juice away from his skin. "She is like no one I've ever seen, let alone met before."

Charon nodded, stood, and limped to the door. When his friend gazed at him in confusion, he smiled.

"You must wash, my lord," he stated simply, before again making his way to the rickety boat. Hades sighed, turning over a pomegranate leaf in his palm, a delighted expression tugging at his solemn features. He stood up, leaving the stalk with its friends, and followed the ferryman, his thoughts painfully rushed with visions of Spring.