the importance of tea and appearances; a hades/persephone, lito mythfic.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is another in my series of "mythfics", to borrow the term from my darling etzyofi. In order to fully appreciate these, be sure to look at my Greek Gods in Modern Times casting picspams ( Part One, Part Two, and Part Three). I'm also including a "cast list" at the beginning of the fic just as a refresher as to who's playing who.)
FEATURING:
the importance of tea and appearances, a hades/persephone lito fic, pg.
(As requested by lalumena: hades/persephone, tea party in hell. The setting: The Underworld, the Victorian period, just a few decades before the Arrangement that brought the gods to the Lito. Just know that Hades looks remarkably like Mr. Thornton from North & South and Persephone is wearing a bustle. :D)
For a god who had to work with humanity every day-even if it was the dead bits of it-Hades had never paid much attention to the mundane trappings of mortals. He was too busy sorting through souls to care about fashion trends and inventions and décor. When you become accustomed to dealing with the insubstantial, things like waistcoats and parasols seem quite ridiculous. (1,641 words)
“Could we… could we have a tea party?”
He looked up from his plate and stared at her from across the wide ebony table. His brow furrowed. “…We’ve just had dinner,” he pointed out.
“Oh, well, I meant later. Perhaps tomorrow?”
He set down his knife. “If you want some tea, all you need do is ask.”
“No, it’s not just tea,” she said helplessly, crumpling up her napkin, tearing at the edges. “Tea parties aren’t really about the tea. It’s more the fun of the entire affair, you see? The little sandwiches and cakes and the general… air of the thing. When you can listen to poetry being read aloud and there’s a light breeze and the scent of lavender around you…”
She was staring up at the ceiling-or at least in the direction of the ceiling, which was too high above and too hidden in shadows for even their immortal eyes to discern-with a faraway and glimmering expression of delight across her pale face. A smile curved at her pink lips. There was something of a blooming rose about her, pale shades of deepening hue and the sense of welcoming the warmth of spring.
When she wore sweet hope like that, as mortal women would wear fur stoles or strands of pearls, Hades was powerless.
“It sounds very… Froofy,” he began in a grumbling way. Her face fell slightly. “I don’t think I approve of sitting around reading poetry aloud… But if it would make you happy, I think I could suffer through it.”
“Oh, wonderful!” She laughed, clapping her hands together. There was always going to be something of an innocent child about Persephone’s mannerisms-he’d realized this centuries ago, but they were still endearing. “I’ll get everything ready tonight! Shall we forego lunch? Then you wouldn’t have to change your schedule.”
“Alright,” he conceded graciously.
“Thank you, dear!” She jumped up from her chair and rushed around the table to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. He managed an awkward one-armed hug around her waist before she’d darted away, running down the hall with her long yellow skirts swishing merrily.
---
He knew how she got about these little parties of hers. Even when it would only be the two of them, Persephone was very particular about doing things properly. Which meant dressing for the occasion.
For a god who had to work with humanity every day-even if it was the dead bits of it-Hades had never paid much attention to the mundane trappings of mortals. He was too busy sorting through souls to care about fashion trends and inventions and décor. When you become accustomed to dealing with the insubstantial, things like waistcoats and parasols seem quite ridiculous.
And, personally, he would have been happy to wear togas until the universe collapsed in on itself. They were comfortable and simple and you knew where you stood with them. You didn’t need to worry about patterns and layers and tiny buttons with a toga.
But Persephone-Persephone adored fashion. She’d recently lamented to him that she missed too much when she was with him for her allotted months; she even said she wished there was a way to keep track of the new collections and trends in Paris and London, some way of seeing everything that went on up Above while she wiled away the winter.
(“Like a magic mirror!” she’d exclaimed when the thought struck her. “In all of the French fairytales, there’s always a magic mirror that can see whatever the owner wishes. I’d love a magic mirror.”
“And use it to admire clothes?” he’d demanded, outraged. “What useless frippery!”)
So while Hades would have been content to keep to the old, proper ways, Persephone was careful to keep them both up to date with human tastes. When she’d returned from her last trip Above, she’d brought several boxes of tweed and lace and wool (“You expect me to wear wool when sorting the souls into Tartarus?”), and enough silk and taffeta to outfit an entire boarding house of young misses. She loved her dainty gloves and bustles and corsets, and carried a parasol with her nearly every day-regardless of the fact that there was no sun in the Underworld, and she rarely left the palace. On the rare occasions when she could convince him to “dress up” in the frock jackets and top hats, she nearly had paroxysms of delight.
This time, at least, Hades could humor his wife her eccentricities. It was just another of her childish delights, on par with her love of chivalric ballads, pressed flowers, and songbirds. She had simple enough joys, and he could never bring himself to crush them entirely, no matter how ridiculous he found them.
“You even wore the hat!” she cried happily when he stepped into the room she’d begun calling ‘the parlour’. She ran to embrace him with the loud rustle of silk and chiffon, the copper ringlets of her hair bouncing against her shoulders. “You look marvelous, dear!”
“You look lovely,” he said, and meant it. There was something to be said for corsets, if they could make a pair of breasts look that inviting amidst lace and ribbon.
“I’ve brewed all sorts of tea,” she said as she bustled around the table, sorting through the cups and saucers and tiny silver spoons and dishes of sugar cubes and tiny pots of creamer and platters of cucumber sandwiches and bowls full of cream puffs… The circular table was close to collapsing under the weight of the trifles and tea service accoutrements. “Which would you like to start with?”
“Surprise me.” He wondered if Zeus ever had to deal with something like this; then he thought of Hera’s cool reserve and realized the folly in that thought.
He settled himself into an elaborate chair with his cup and saucer and sipped thoughtfully at the steaming brew. It wasn’t bad, he had to concede. Nothing to compare to ambrosia or wine or mead or ale-or a dozen other beverages he preferred, really-but palatable. He still couldn’t see why humans would be so fanatic over such a drink, especially not to the degree of developing an entire ceremony around its imbibing.
“Sandwich?”
He took one because it made her smile, but he quite detested cucumbers. They were nothing but water and tartness, and you’d have to eat a dozen of them to feel even slightly full. He finished one cup and held it out to be refilled, which she did so readily with a smile and a deft hand with the porcelain pot. Then came the plates of tiny cakes and bowls of cream puffs; when those were gone as well she picked up a small blue book she’d set to the side.
“Aphrodite gave me this,” she explained. “It’s by a gentleman named Oscar Wilde, one of her new favourites. She said there are few mortals more appreciative of beauty and fashion than Mr. Wilde. It’s a play-I thought we could sit together on the loveseat and read some of it together.”
“Aloud?”
“Well, yes. It’s something of a diversion Above. The very fancy parties even act out scenes.”
How awkward and frustrating, he thought. But her eyes were so luminous in the candlelight, and he knew how boredom could eat at her while he was busy with his work.
They settled on the soft loveseat and read aloud in turn, and Hades realized something: this Oscar Wilde was a refreshing wit. Having heard Aphrodite’s recommendation, he’d prepared himself for a hollow, prattling popinjay and instead found a writer who knew full well that most of humanity was nothing but stupidity and artifice and very deftly skewered it with the pen of satire. Several turns of phrase and moments of clarity made him chuckle outright, which both surprised and pleased Persephone.
They finished the first scene and she refilled their cups for the last time.
“So?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think? Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked solicitously.
“Sweetheart, I must confess that crumpets and cucumber sandwiches aren’t worth much in my eyes,” he said as gently as he could. “And while the tea is fine, I don’t understand why it deserves such an elaborate ritual.”
“Yes, I thought you’d say as much,” she said softly, looking down into her china cup. “Tea parties aren’t much without a proper setting or at least six guests. I just… Wanted to have one. They make me think of summer and games of croquet and fresh strawberries. Mother and Hestia and Aphrodite quite enjoy them-they often go down to mingle with the nicer crowds of mortals, and the ladies’ hats and parasols are so lovely to admire…”
Loneliness and homesickness: the only two blights on their relationship. Hades knew why Zeus had ordered the six-month arrangement, knew that it was the only way Persephone could ever be happy and still stay with him. But it was difficult, knowing that his wife was never wholly satisfied thanks to the in-fighting and whims of the family: here she was always longing for the sunlight and her mother, and there she was always pining for him.
“Maybe I’ll ask Hermes to have a word with Hephaestus,” Hades suggested.
“About what?” she asked, looking up at him in confusion.
“About crafting you a magic mirror. If anyone can make one that works properly, it should be Hephaestus.”
“Oh, Hades, that would be so lovely,” she said breathlessly with a huge smile.
“But as for the rest of our afternoon…” He set aside his teacup and smiled a very particular smile that she recognized immediately.
“But what about your work?” she gasped as his hands slid beneath several layers of dress.
“I think I shall try Bunburying, just this once.”
FEATURING:
the importance of tea and appearances, a hades/persephone lito fic, pg.
(As requested by lalumena: hades/persephone, tea party in hell. The setting: The Underworld, the Victorian period, just a few decades before the Arrangement that brought the gods to the Lito. Just know that Hades looks remarkably like Mr. Thornton from North & South and Persephone is wearing a bustle. :D)
For a god who had to work with humanity every day-even if it was the dead bits of it-Hades had never paid much attention to the mundane trappings of mortals. He was too busy sorting through souls to care about fashion trends and inventions and décor. When you become accustomed to dealing with the insubstantial, things like waistcoats and parasols seem quite ridiculous. (1,641 words)
“Could we… could we have a tea party?”
He looked up from his plate and stared at her from across the wide ebony table. His brow furrowed. “…We’ve just had dinner,” he pointed out.
“Oh, well, I meant later. Perhaps tomorrow?”
He set down his knife. “If you want some tea, all you need do is ask.”
“No, it’s not just tea,” she said helplessly, crumpling up her napkin, tearing at the edges. “Tea parties aren’t really about the tea. It’s more the fun of the entire affair, you see? The little sandwiches and cakes and the general… air of the thing. When you can listen to poetry being read aloud and there’s a light breeze and the scent of lavender around you…”
She was staring up at the ceiling-or at least in the direction of the ceiling, which was too high above and too hidden in shadows for even their immortal eyes to discern-with a faraway and glimmering expression of delight across her pale face. A smile curved at her pink lips. There was something of a blooming rose about her, pale shades of deepening hue and the sense of welcoming the warmth of spring.
When she wore sweet hope like that, as mortal women would wear fur stoles or strands of pearls, Hades was powerless.
“It sounds very… Froofy,” he began in a grumbling way. Her face fell slightly. “I don’t think I approve of sitting around reading poetry aloud… But if it would make you happy, I think I could suffer through it.”
“Oh, wonderful!” She laughed, clapping her hands together. There was always going to be something of an innocent child about Persephone’s mannerisms-he’d realized this centuries ago, but they were still endearing. “I’ll get everything ready tonight! Shall we forego lunch? Then you wouldn’t have to change your schedule.”
“Alright,” he conceded graciously.
“Thank you, dear!” She jumped up from her chair and rushed around the table to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. He managed an awkward one-armed hug around her waist before she’d darted away, running down the hall with her long yellow skirts swishing merrily.
---
He knew how she got about these little parties of hers. Even when it would only be the two of them, Persephone was very particular about doing things properly. Which meant dressing for the occasion.
For a god who had to work with humanity every day-even if it was the dead bits of it-Hades had never paid much attention to the mundane trappings of mortals. He was too busy sorting through souls to care about fashion trends and inventions and décor. When you become accustomed to dealing with the insubstantial, things like waistcoats and parasols seem quite ridiculous.
And, personally, he would have been happy to wear togas until the universe collapsed in on itself. They were comfortable and simple and you knew where you stood with them. You didn’t need to worry about patterns and layers and tiny buttons with a toga.
But Persephone-Persephone adored fashion. She’d recently lamented to him that she missed too much when she was with him for her allotted months; she even said she wished there was a way to keep track of the new collections and trends in Paris and London, some way of seeing everything that went on up Above while she wiled away the winter.
(“Like a magic mirror!” she’d exclaimed when the thought struck her. “In all of the French fairytales, there’s always a magic mirror that can see whatever the owner wishes. I’d love a magic mirror.”
“And use it to admire clothes?” he’d demanded, outraged. “What useless frippery!”)
So while Hades would have been content to keep to the old, proper ways, Persephone was careful to keep them both up to date with human tastes. When she’d returned from her last trip Above, she’d brought several boxes of tweed and lace and wool (“You expect me to wear wool when sorting the souls into Tartarus?”), and enough silk and taffeta to outfit an entire boarding house of young misses. She loved her dainty gloves and bustles and corsets, and carried a parasol with her nearly every day-regardless of the fact that there was no sun in the Underworld, and she rarely left the palace. On the rare occasions when she could convince him to “dress up” in the frock jackets and top hats, she nearly had paroxysms of delight.
This time, at least, Hades could humor his wife her eccentricities. It was just another of her childish delights, on par with her love of chivalric ballads, pressed flowers, and songbirds. She had simple enough joys, and he could never bring himself to crush them entirely, no matter how ridiculous he found them.
“You even wore the hat!” she cried happily when he stepped into the room she’d begun calling ‘the parlour’. She ran to embrace him with the loud rustle of silk and chiffon, the copper ringlets of her hair bouncing against her shoulders. “You look marvelous, dear!”
“You look lovely,” he said, and meant it. There was something to be said for corsets, if they could make a pair of breasts look that inviting amidst lace and ribbon.
“I’ve brewed all sorts of tea,” she said as she bustled around the table, sorting through the cups and saucers and tiny silver spoons and dishes of sugar cubes and tiny pots of creamer and platters of cucumber sandwiches and bowls full of cream puffs… The circular table was close to collapsing under the weight of the trifles and tea service accoutrements. “Which would you like to start with?”
“Surprise me.” He wondered if Zeus ever had to deal with something like this; then he thought of Hera’s cool reserve and realized the folly in that thought.
He settled himself into an elaborate chair with his cup and saucer and sipped thoughtfully at the steaming brew. It wasn’t bad, he had to concede. Nothing to compare to ambrosia or wine or mead or ale-or a dozen other beverages he preferred, really-but palatable. He still couldn’t see why humans would be so fanatic over such a drink, especially not to the degree of developing an entire ceremony around its imbibing.
“Sandwich?”
He took one because it made her smile, but he quite detested cucumbers. They were nothing but water and tartness, and you’d have to eat a dozen of them to feel even slightly full. He finished one cup and held it out to be refilled, which she did so readily with a smile and a deft hand with the porcelain pot. Then came the plates of tiny cakes and bowls of cream puffs; when those were gone as well she picked up a small blue book she’d set to the side.
“Aphrodite gave me this,” she explained. “It’s by a gentleman named Oscar Wilde, one of her new favourites. She said there are few mortals more appreciative of beauty and fashion than Mr. Wilde. It’s a play-I thought we could sit together on the loveseat and read some of it together.”
“Aloud?”
“Well, yes. It’s something of a diversion Above. The very fancy parties even act out scenes.”
How awkward and frustrating, he thought. But her eyes were so luminous in the candlelight, and he knew how boredom could eat at her while he was busy with his work.
They settled on the soft loveseat and read aloud in turn, and Hades realized something: this Oscar Wilde was a refreshing wit. Having heard Aphrodite’s recommendation, he’d prepared himself for a hollow, prattling popinjay and instead found a writer who knew full well that most of humanity was nothing but stupidity and artifice and very deftly skewered it with the pen of satire. Several turns of phrase and moments of clarity made him chuckle outright, which both surprised and pleased Persephone.
They finished the first scene and she refilled their cups for the last time.
“So?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think? Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked solicitously.
“Sweetheart, I must confess that crumpets and cucumber sandwiches aren’t worth much in my eyes,” he said as gently as he could. “And while the tea is fine, I don’t understand why it deserves such an elaborate ritual.”
“Yes, I thought you’d say as much,” she said softly, looking down into her china cup. “Tea parties aren’t much without a proper setting or at least six guests. I just… Wanted to have one. They make me think of summer and games of croquet and fresh strawberries. Mother and Hestia and Aphrodite quite enjoy them-they often go down to mingle with the nicer crowds of mortals, and the ladies’ hats and parasols are so lovely to admire…”
Loneliness and homesickness: the only two blights on their relationship. Hades knew why Zeus had ordered the six-month arrangement, knew that it was the only way Persephone could ever be happy and still stay with him. But it was difficult, knowing that his wife was never wholly satisfied thanks to the in-fighting and whims of the family: here she was always longing for the sunlight and her mother, and there she was always pining for him.
“Maybe I’ll ask Hermes to have a word with Hephaestus,” Hades suggested.
“About what?” she asked, looking up at him in confusion.
“About crafting you a magic mirror. If anyone can make one that works properly, it should be Hephaestus.”
“Oh, Hades, that would be so lovely,” she said breathlessly with a huge smile.
“But as for the rest of our afternoon…” He set aside his teacup and smiled a very particular smile that she recognized immediately.
“But what about your work?” she gasped as his hands slid beneath several layers of dress.
“I think I shall try Bunburying, just this once.”