hooked to my ribs like a burr; a hades/persephone fic
(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 at the casting picspams.)
CAST:
hooked to my ribs like a burr, a hades/persephone fic, pg-13
Hades has a hard heart that not even his wife can fully soften. But perhaps his latest outburst will also be his last.
It had become easier, after the Pact-his new mortality had tempered some of that rage. No longer fully divine, his new body could not sustain the same intensities as the old. He couldn’t crack the walls to pieces. (2,719 words)
the viscous heart I hide from you
gnashing, polluted, hooked to my ribs like a burr,
stuck there and stinging
I am not kind, I am not nice
but I am in love with you
There was a darkness within him, since the fateful clash that sent him reeling back, tumbling down into the world of shadows and shades. When Zeus smote him with his bolt, the blast cracked his heart and left a deep, festering wound there. For centuries he brooded, weakened and agonized, always bleeding within and unable to staunch the flow. Nothing could comfort him; there was no solace in the land of the dead, not even for a god.
And then his eyes turned to her. Fair as the first day of spring, rosy hued and fresh, vibrant with an innocent joy he would never know. Flowers spilled from her hair, and the breeze that wove itself through her robes seemed to laugh.
He had wanted the throne, with a passion so fiery it had near consumed him-had in fact left him scorched in his long exile. But never had he desired anything else. Until he saw her. He ached wholly at the thought of her. His skin burned for her. He had to have her, in his arms and in his bed, else he would truly go mad.
This time, he claimed what he took. But in a far different manner than he had anticipated. And while he could never have the throne, perhaps Persephone would be a fitting replacement.
Though his heart, however patched and mended by her love, would never truly be whole again. There are things not even the divine can truly heal, when it was divinity that so maimed them.
Every man had his bad days, and Persephone had learned the warning signs by now. His replies would be just a bit too brittle and sharp; his brow would furrow as his eyes settled into a harsh glare; he would stop shaving, until his beard was coarse against her cheeks when they kissed-and his kisses would be possessive, almost violent, and leave her breathless with more than just passion.
The signs were building, and she worried as she always did. But by now she had learned that nothing she did, no matter how thoughtful or sweet, would accomplish anything. It was as if a boiling steam was building up inside him. The only cure would be to vent it. And he was never careful of when the pressure became too much.
“I don’t think you should be here today,” he said heavily over breakfast. He knew she couldn’t have missed the warning signs-but he would never let it get to the point of no return without warning her, nonetheless. He promised himself that, after the last time she saw his rage, over a thousand years ago.
“I’ll be working late,” she replied. “And Mother wants to have a late dinner with me.”
He couldn’t look at her, so he stared at the newspaper with an intensity that should have made the paper combust.
She grabbed her oversized purse and portfolio, slipped on her heels, and was gone. There was something of a graceful deer in flight as she hurried down the hall, her long ginger curls streaming behind her.
He had never harmed her in one of his fits-not physically, not verbally. He was a good husband to her, and had never laid an abusive hand on her before. There had been moments, though, when his fury had terrified her. He would shout at her to leave, to get away from him, and she had heard regret beneath the flames; he knew the effect his outbursts had on her, and he was sorry for it. But the darkness within him, all of the pain and bitterness and loathing, would erupt no matter how he tried to contain it. And in those moments he was as terrifying as Zeus, all brimstone and darkness and ground-shaking wrath.
It had become easier, after the Pact-his new mortality had tempered some of that rage. No longer fully divine, his new body could not sustain the same intensities as the old. He couldn’t crack the walls to pieces.
As Persephone stepped out of the elevator and crossed the lobby, upstairs Hades was finally abandoning his breakfast. One hand had clenched unconsciously into a shaking fist, the blunt nails cutting into the skin of his palm. He stepped into the living room, and the sense of Persephone’s sweetness washed over him. She had just finished redecorating for the third time in a year. The sofa was now a dark, leafy green, the draperies a mellow brown. There were pink accents everywhere, from the lamps to the pillows to the figurines on the shelves.
Shame washed over him. Shame that he periodically behaved in a way that frightened his wife into hiding; shame that he could not control his own heart; shame that he was a poor husband to such a good wife. Memories of past transgressions stabbed at him, of the outbursts before the War, when he still called the Underworld his kingdom. He remembered destroying the great hall, of tearing down the pillars and smashing the black marble floor to dust. The statues maimed, the vases broken. Persephone’s face, pale and tear-streaked, floated before him-he had thrown himself into the Styx that time, hoping the deathly waters would shake him back into reason.
His clenched fist thrust out without warning, striking the plaster wall with a sickening crack. He opened his eyes to stare at the spiderweb fractures he’d made, the deep depression beneath his knuckles. Not deep enough. Not by half.
He pulled his arm back. Punched forward again. It began to hurt, the skin across his knuckles splitting, plaster dust sticking to the blood that trickled down his fingers. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice wondered dully if he had broken bones yet.
It was the twentieth (or was it thirtieth?) time when a hand suddenly closed around his wrist just as he was pulling his arm back for the next punch. It was a large, callused hand, and even as he struggled to move he knew it would be futile-the restraining arm was of far sterner mettle than his.
“I think you should stop now,” Hephaestus said in an even, unbrooking tone. He was leaning against his other crutch. There was not a hint of judgment in his face. “Or maybe you should punch something that can give as good as it gets?”
“Are you offering?” Hades growled. He could barely see Hephaestus through the blur.
“If I must,” came the placid response. “Though I warn you that I won’t hold back. I don’t believe in pulling physical punches. Plus, I’ve got canes. Those can be pretty painful across a back. C’mon. Let’s go into the kitchen and wash off your hand.”
“Hephaestus,” he managed through gritted teeth, even as the smith pulled him firmly by the arm. “You should not be here.”
“I heard you, from my apartment,” Hephaestus said. “The punching, the yelling. Did you know you were yelling? I’ve gotten used to hearing odd things around here, but when I hear noises like that… I’ve decided that I’m done sitting on the sidelines. When I hear something like that, I’m going to do something about it.”
“You didn’t think-”
“That you were hurting Persephone? No, of course I didn’t,” and his dismissive tone proved the truth of that. “Some of the others may think Persephone a fragile, timid little thing, but we both know better than that. She’s one of Hestia’s closest friends-I’ve been around her long enough to see the steel behind the silk. I know she wouldn’t put up with any violence from you. No, I thought you were doing a damage to yourself.”
“Think the wall got off worse,” Hades said. His breathing was becoming less labored. Hephaestus had turned on the sink’s faucet, twisted the hot water tap on full, and was now inexorably drawing Hades’ hand to the stream. He hissed as the scalding water hit the broken skin.
“Have any antibacterial in the bathroom?”
“Blasted if I know.”
Hephaestus looked at him for a moment. “Perhaps you can go without it for now. Hope Persephone doesn’t mind us ruining one of her dish towels.” He wrapped the hand tightly, tucking in the ends. “You should probably let Morpheus take a look at this later.”
“Thanks,” Hades grumbled. “You can go now.”
“And let you get back to your remodeling with the other hand?” Hephaestus said dryly. “I’ve a better idea-you talk, and I listen. Hestia says I’m a pretty good listener.”
“There’s nothing I want to talk about.”
“Oh? Nothing? So you’ve got a practical reason for punching the wall until you break your hand?”
“Keep out of my business!” Hades shouted, slamming his other hand down on the countertop. “I didn’t ask you to come in. I don’t need you here right now.”
“Hades, I’m not leaving. The last time someone wanted me to leave, they had to throw me off Olympus.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as Hades’ eyes darted down to the crutch.
“Why do you care so fucking much all of a sudden?” he finally demanded.
“Well, for starters, I don’t want Persephone to come back to a demolished home. And because… with all of the recent developments… I think we should look after each other a bit better than we have in the past. We’re all family, though we may not like it every day. When it comes down to it, when we need someone to watch our backs, family’s the only place to turn. Don’t you think?”
The burn that had subsided with Hephaestus’ arrival threatened to flare back into life. Hades could feel it in his stomach, creeping up his throat. A senseless anger at this so-called family-at the brothers, in particular, who had exiled him to a half-life for centuries. He glared at Hephaestus and tried, tried fiercely, to recognize that here was one who had been just as blighted by the vengeful whims of Olympus. Hephaestus lived daily with his curse; he was perhaps the most honorable of them, the most undeserving of his trials.
But his heart would not be swayed by reason. It demanded violence to appease it, destruction to soothe it. He was drawing back his uninjured hand before the urge had even fully gripped him.
Hephaestus’ crutch struck the side of his knee, and his leg crumpled immediately. Then the crutch had clattered to the wood floor, and Hephaestus caught the falling arm while redoubling his grip on the other. They stood there for a breathless moment, a most bizarre tableau: the God of the Underworld literally brought to his knees, his arms held, ineffective in their immovable prisons, in the God of the Forge’s hands. Hephaestus’ legs trembled visibly with the effort. He had only Hades to grip to now, the crutch lying abandoned beside them. And he knew that all of his upper body strength would be for naught if Hades only let himself fall backwards; he would fall just the same, and would have a much harder time getting back up again.
But they held at their strange impasse. Hades bowed his head, his breathing heavy and irregular.
“Have you ever thought about anger management?” Hephaestus said, out of breath as well.
“Talking about my feelings to a stranger?” Hades said.
“Maybe. Or maybe you could come down to the garage when you feel like this. Perseus has a punching bag down there, reinforced for more-than-mortal strength. I could give you a bloody ton of metal to flatten with a hammer. Hell, I’d let you rip apart one of Apollo’s cars, if it would do any good. I could reassemble it later.”
“…I’m going to stand now.”
He did so slowly, careful not to unbalance Hephaestus. A moment later they had both fallen into chairs.
“You mentioned a punching bag?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
It was half past two in the morning when Persephone crept into the bedroom. She smelled of her mother’s floral perfume; Demeter always gave her the most rib-crushing of hugs when they parted ways. The bounce had started to go out of her curls. Her silk shirt had begun to wrinkle. She dropped her purse by the door and crept barefoot to the bed.
He was sprawled across the bed in only his black robe, hair still damp from the shower. His face was half covered by a pillow, his feet dangling off the edge. She smiled over him, glad that he seemed at peace, and turned her attention to her closet.
She was rifling through the hangers, picking out her outfit for the next day, when a warm arm slid around her waist.
“Oh! I’m sorry if I woke you,” she said, turning her face to look into his. “Darling, is everything okay? You look exhausted.”
“I broke Perseus’ punching bag today,” he said, fighting back a yawn. “Punched the sand right out of it. But it seemed to do the trick.”
“You feel better, then?”
“Yes. …Persephone?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“I think we should talk.”
She followed him back to the bed, brow pinched with concern, and sat on the edge beside him.
“My… fits. We’ve never explicitly discussed them. I think it’s time we did. And firstly, I wanted to stress that these aren’t caused by you in the slightest. You’ve done nothing, said nothing, to bring them about. I had them before we married-I’ve had them since Zeus cast me out. And that’s the crux of it, I think.” He sighed. “I had a chat with Morpheus, and he thinks this is all repressed anger over that trauma. He even went so far as to compare it to post-traumatic stress, as if I was a soldier returning from war.”
“In a way, though,” Persephone said softly. “You were in a war. The way you and Zeus fought… The pillars shook, the entire kingdom convulsed. It was a shocking, terrible thing to witness-I can’t begin to imagine how it felt to be caught in the middle of it.”
“Whatever you want to call it, I’ve been a fool to carry on like this. I should have done something about this long, long ago. I should have tried to find a solution after you found me that first time, tearing down the very walls and screaming like a monster. I regret ever scaring you.”
“Well, then.” She covered his bandaged hand with hers. “What are you going to do?”
“Morpheus has recommended a psychiatrist-he thinks it’s a good idea for me to verbally vent everything and address the root of the problems. I’ll have monthly sessions with her. And Hephaestus has offered his garage for any physical venting. I’ll be replacing the punching bag tomorrow.”
“I’m really happy to hear that,” she said, smiling. “Very, very happy. I’m here to support you, darling, no matter what.”
“You’ve already done so much,” he said earnestly. “Persephone, if you hadn’t loved me, married me, defended me… You remember what I was like when we first met, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And that was when I was on my best behavior. I was so eaten up by hatred and bitterness before you came-I thought only of my own selfish, destructive desires. I dreamed of pulling down the pillars of Olympus, of crushing everyone, even the blameless, just to have my revenge on Zeus. I truly was a monster, driven only by violence. You brought back the man, the god. You helped to restore some of my former power and reason. Mortal men call their wives their ‘better halfs’, and it’s always a joke. But you truly are my better half, Persephone. I would be nothing worthy or redeemable without you.”
He put his arms around her as she turned to him, laid his head on her breast. She combed her fingers through his damp hair, the steady rise and fall of her chest soothing him. Then she bowed her head over his and pressed her lips to the back of his neck in a gentle kiss, a soft benediction.
CAST:
hooked to my ribs like a burr, a hades/persephone fic, pg-13
Hades has a hard heart that not even his wife can fully soften. But perhaps his latest outburst will also be his last.
It had become easier, after the Pact-his new mortality had tempered some of that rage. No longer fully divine, his new body could not sustain the same intensities as the old. He couldn’t crack the walls to pieces. (2,719 words)
the viscous heart I hide from you
gnashing, polluted, hooked to my ribs like a burr,
stuck there and stinging
I am not kind, I am not nice
but I am in love with you
There was a darkness within him, since the fateful clash that sent him reeling back, tumbling down into the world of shadows and shades. When Zeus smote him with his bolt, the blast cracked his heart and left a deep, festering wound there. For centuries he brooded, weakened and agonized, always bleeding within and unable to staunch the flow. Nothing could comfort him; there was no solace in the land of the dead, not even for a god.
And then his eyes turned to her. Fair as the first day of spring, rosy hued and fresh, vibrant with an innocent joy he would never know. Flowers spilled from her hair, and the breeze that wove itself through her robes seemed to laugh.
He had wanted the throne, with a passion so fiery it had near consumed him-had in fact left him scorched in his long exile. But never had he desired anything else. Until he saw her. He ached wholly at the thought of her. His skin burned for her. He had to have her, in his arms and in his bed, else he would truly go mad.
This time, he claimed what he took. But in a far different manner than he had anticipated. And while he could never have the throne, perhaps Persephone would be a fitting replacement.
Though his heart, however patched and mended by her love, would never truly be whole again. There are things not even the divine can truly heal, when it was divinity that so maimed them.
Every man had his bad days, and Persephone had learned the warning signs by now. His replies would be just a bit too brittle and sharp; his brow would furrow as his eyes settled into a harsh glare; he would stop shaving, until his beard was coarse against her cheeks when they kissed-and his kisses would be possessive, almost violent, and leave her breathless with more than just passion.
The signs were building, and she worried as she always did. But by now she had learned that nothing she did, no matter how thoughtful or sweet, would accomplish anything. It was as if a boiling steam was building up inside him. The only cure would be to vent it. And he was never careful of when the pressure became too much.
“I don’t think you should be here today,” he said heavily over breakfast. He knew she couldn’t have missed the warning signs-but he would never let it get to the point of no return without warning her, nonetheless. He promised himself that, after the last time she saw his rage, over a thousand years ago.
“I’ll be working late,” she replied. “And Mother wants to have a late dinner with me.”
He couldn’t look at her, so he stared at the newspaper with an intensity that should have made the paper combust.
She grabbed her oversized purse and portfolio, slipped on her heels, and was gone. There was something of a graceful deer in flight as she hurried down the hall, her long ginger curls streaming behind her.
He had never harmed her in one of his fits-not physically, not verbally. He was a good husband to her, and had never laid an abusive hand on her before. There had been moments, though, when his fury had terrified her. He would shout at her to leave, to get away from him, and she had heard regret beneath the flames; he knew the effect his outbursts had on her, and he was sorry for it. But the darkness within him, all of the pain and bitterness and loathing, would erupt no matter how he tried to contain it. And in those moments he was as terrifying as Zeus, all brimstone and darkness and ground-shaking wrath.
It had become easier, after the Pact-his new mortality had tempered some of that rage. No longer fully divine, his new body could not sustain the same intensities as the old. He couldn’t crack the walls to pieces.
As Persephone stepped out of the elevator and crossed the lobby, upstairs Hades was finally abandoning his breakfast. One hand had clenched unconsciously into a shaking fist, the blunt nails cutting into the skin of his palm. He stepped into the living room, and the sense of Persephone’s sweetness washed over him. She had just finished redecorating for the third time in a year. The sofa was now a dark, leafy green, the draperies a mellow brown. There were pink accents everywhere, from the lamps to the pillows to the figurines on the shelves.
Shame washed over him. Shame that he periodically behaved in a way that frightened his wife into hiding; shame that he could not control his own heart; shame that he was a poor husband to such a good wife. Memories of past transgressions stabbed at him, of the outbursts before the War, when he still called the Underworld his kingdom. He remembered destroying the great hall, of tearing down the pillars and smashing the black marble floor to dust. The statues maimed, the vases broken. Persephone’s face, pale and tear-streaked, floated before him-he had thrown himself into the Styx that time, hoping the deathly waters would shake him back into reason.
His clenched fist thrust out without warning, striking the plaster wall with a sickening crack. He opened his eyes to stare at the spiderweb fractures he’d made, the deep depression beneath his knuckles. Not deep enough. Not by half.
He pulled his arm back. Punched forward again. It began to hurt, the skin across his knuckles splitting, plaster dust sticking to the blood that trickled down his fingers. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice wondered dully if he had broken bones yet.
It was the twentieth (or was it thirtieth?) time when a hand suddenly closed around his wrist just as he was pulling his arm back for the next punch. It was a large, callused hand, and even as he struggled to move he knew it would be futile-the restraining arm was of far sterner mettle than his.
“I think you should stop now,” Hephaestus said in an even, unbrooking tone. He was leaning against his other crutch. There was not a hint of judgment in his face. “Or maybe you should punch something that can give as good as it gets?”
“Are you offering?” Hades growled. He could barely see Hephaestus through the blur.
“If I must,” came the placid response. “Though I warn you that I won’t hold back. I don’t believe in pulling physical punches. Plus, I’ve got canes. Those can be pretty painful across a back. C’mon. Let’s go into the kitchen and wash off your hand.”
“Hephaestus,” he managed through gritted teeth, even as the smith pulled him firmly by the arm. “You should not be here.”
“I heard you, from my apartment,” Hephaestus said. “The punching, the yelling. Did you know you were yelling? I’ve gotten used to hearing odd things around here, but when I hear noises like that… I’ve decided that I’m done sitting on the sidelines. When I hear something like that, I’m going to do something about it.”
“You didn’t think-”
“That you were hurting Persephone? No, of course I didn’t,” and his dismissive tone proved the truth of that. “Some of the others may think Persephone a fragile, timid little thing, but we both know better than that. She’s one of Hestia’s closest friends-I’ve been around her long enough to see the steel behind the silk. I know she wouldn’t put up with any violence from you. No, I thought you were doing a damage to yourself.”
“Think the wall got off worse,” Hades said. His breathing was becoming less labored. Hephaestus had turned on the sink’s faucet, twisted the hot water tap on full, and was now inexorably drawing Hades’ hand to the stream. He hissed as the scalding water hit the broken skin.
“Have any antibacterial in the bathroom?”
“Blasted if I know.”
Hephaestus looked at him for a moment. “Perhaps you can go without it for now. Hope Persephone doesn’t mind us ruining one of her dish towels.” He wrapped the hand tightly, tucking in the ends. “You should probably let Morpheus take a look at this later.”
“Thanks,” Hades grumbled. “You can go now.”
“And let you get back to your remodeling with the other hand?” Hephaestus said dryly. “I’ve a better idea-you talk, and I listen. Hestia says I’m a pretty good listener.”
“There’s nothing I want to talk about.”
“Oh? Nothing? So you’ve got a practical reason for punching the wall until you break your hand?”
“Keep out of my business!” Hades shouted, slamming his other hand down on the countertop. “I didn’t ask you to come in. I don’t need you here right now.”
“Hades, I’m not leaving. The last time someone wanted me to leave, they had to throw me off Olympus.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as Hades’ eyes darted down to the crutch.
“Why do you care so fucking much all of a sudden?” he finally demanded.
“Well, for starters, I don’t want Persephone to come back to a demolished home. And because… with all of the recent developments… I think we should look after each other a bit better than we have in the past. We’re all family, though we may not like it every day. When it comes down to it, when we need someone to watch our backs, family’s the only place to turn. Don’t you think?”
The burn that had subsided with Hephaestus’ arrival threatened to flare back into life. Hades could feel it in his stomach, creeping up his throat. A senseless anger at this so-called family-at the brothers, in particular, who had exiled him to a half-life for centuries. He glared at Hephaestus and tried, tried fiercely, to recognize that here was one who had been just as blighted by the vengeful whims of Olympus. Hephaestus lived daily with his curse; he was perhaps the most honorable of them, the most undeserving of his trials.
But his heart would not be swayed by reason. It demanded violence to appease it, destruction to soothe it. He was drawing back his uninjured hand before the urge had even fully gripped him.
Hephaestus’ crutch struck the side of his knee, and his leg crumpled immediately. Then the crutch had clattered to the wood floor, and Hephaestus caught the falling arm while redoubling his grip on the other. They stood there for a breathless moment, a most bizarre tableau: the God of the Underworld literally brought to his knees, his arms held, ineffective in their immovable prisons, in the God of the Forge’s hands. Hephaestus’ legs trembled visibly with the effort. He had only Hades to grip to now, the crutch lying abandoned beside them. And he knew that all of his upper body strength would be for naught if Hades only let himself fall backwards; he would fall just the same, and would have a much harder time getting back up again.
But they held at their strange impasse. Hades bowed his head, his breathing heavy and irregular.
“Have you ever thought about anger management?” Hephaestus said, out of breath as well.
“Talking about my feelings to a stranger?” Hades said.
“Maybe. Or maybe you could come down to the garage when you feel like this. Perseus has a punching bag down there, reinforced for more-than-mortal strength. I could give you a bloody ton of metal to flatten with a hammer. Hell, I’d let you rip apart one of Apollo’s cars, if it would do any good. I could reassemble it later.”
“…I’m going to stand now.”
He did so slowly, careful not to unbalance Hephaestus. A moment later they had both fallen into chairs.
“You mentioned a punching bag?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
It was half past two in the morning when Persephone crept into the bedroom. She smelled of her mother’s floral perfume; Demeter always gave her the most rib-crushing of hugs when they parted ways. The bounce had started to go out of her curls. Her silk shirt had begun to wrinkle. She dropped her purse by the door and crept barefoot to the bed.
He was sprawled across the bed in only his black robe, hair still damp from the shower. His face was half covered by a pillow, his feet dangling off the edge. She smiled over him, glad that he seemed at peace, and turned her attention to her closet.
She was rifling through the hangers, picking out her outfit for the next day, when a warm arm slid around her waist.
“Oh! I’m sorry if I woke you,” she said, turning her face to look into his. “Darling, is everything okay? You look exhausted.”
“I broke Perseus’ punching bag today,” he said, fighting back a yawn. “Punched the sand right out of it. But it seemed to do the trick.”
“You feel better, then?”
“Yes. …Persephone?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“I think we should talk.”
She followed him back to the bed, brow pinched with concern, and sat on the edge beside him.
“My… fits. We’ve never explicitly discussed them. I think it’s time we did. And firstly, I wanted to stress that these aren’t caused by you in the slightest. You’ve done nothing, said nothing, to bring them about. I had them before we married-I’ve had them since Zeus cast me out. And that’s the crux of it, I think.” He sighed. “I had a chat with Morpheus, and he thinks this is all repressed anger over that trauma. He even went so far as to compare it to post-traumatic stress, as if I was a soldier returning from war.”
“In a way, though,” Persephone said softly. “You were in a war. The way you and Zeus fought… The pillars shook, the entire kingdom convulsed. It was a shocking, terrible thing to witness-I can’t begin to imagine how it felt to be caught in the middle of it.”
“Whatever you want to call it, I’ve been a fool to carry on like this. I should have done something about this long, long ago. I should have tried to find a solution after you found me that first time, tearing down the very walls and screaming like a monster. I regret ever scaring you.”
“Well, then.” She covered his bandaged hand with hers. “What are you going to do?”
“Morpheus has recommended a psychiatrist-he thinks it’s a good idea for me to verbally vent everything and address the root of the problems. I’ll have monthly sessions with her. And Hephaestus has offered his garage for any physical venting. I’ll be replacing the punching bag tomorrow.”
“I’m really happy to hear that,” she said, smiling. “Very, very happy. I’m here to support you, darling, no matter what.”
“You’ve already done so much,” he said earnestly. “Persephone, if you hadn’t loved me, married me, defended me… You remember what I was like when we first met, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And that was when I was on my best behavior. I was so eaten up by hatred and bitterness before you came-I thought only of my own selfish, destructive desires. I dreamed of pulling down the pillars of Olympus, of crushing everyone, even the blameless, just to have my revenge on Zeus. I truly was a monster, driven only by violence. You brought back the man, the god. You helped to restore some of my former power and reason. Mortal men call their wives their ‘better halfs’, and it’s always a joke. But you truly are my better half, Persephone. I would be nothing worthy or redeemable without you.”
He put his arms around her as she turned to him, laid his head on her breast. She combed her fingers through his damp hair, the steady rise and fall of her chest soothing him. Then she bowed her head over his and pressed her lips to the back of his neck in a gentle kiss, a soft benediction.