Some time later, Hades hosted a banquet to celebrate some obscure piece of underworld history or some forgotten god. Feast days in the underworld did not match those on the surface; Persephone knew she ought to study their calendar at some point, but it had never been a priority.
The fare at her table was noticeably poorer than it had been on previous occasions. Persephone toyed with the food on her plate in a desultory manner. Wheaten cakes, again, with a little fish, but her greens were badly wilted, and there were no other fresh vegetables to speak of.
“Hades,” she began, “what season is it in the overworld?”
Hades paused, her chalice halfway to her lips. She set it down. “Summer, I should think.”
“Again?” Persephone dropped her knife. She looked down at her hands. She would never be as pale as Hades, but her skin had lost its sun-kissed glow, her freckles faded. She’d been here for more than a year, but she’d scarcely noticed the time passing. There was so much to do—her little infrastructure projects, the care and maintenance of her grove, of course, and the various official duties that she performed in her role as Hades’ consort.
She’d become disconnected from the seasons, distant from all the natural cycles. Nothing else could explain her distorted perception of time. If this went on, she’d forget who she once was, just like poor Cerberus, only she wouldn’t need Lethe’s water to break her mind. Simply remaining here, stranded in a world separated from Gaia’s rhythms, would be enough to drive her mad.
“That would mean our wedding anniversary was some time in the past,” Persephone said.
Hades eyed her warily over the top of her chalice. “Yes.”
“We did not exchange gifts.”
“Is there something in particular that you want?” Hades asked, enunciating each word carefully, as if she were dreading the answer.
Persephone played with her wheat cake, tearing it into tiny shreds. “There is only one thing I’ve ever asked of you.”
“Untrue, but you know why I cannot grant your wish.” Hades’ hand hovered near Persephone’s shoulder as though she was going to touch her, but then she must have thought better of it, as she withdrew soon after.
Persephone pushed back her chair and stood. The entire hall went silent, with every assembled person and deity of the underworld turning to glance in her direction. She looked at Hades, expecting some reaction, but Hades did nothing to stop her. She turned and fled from the dining hall, taking the stairs down three at a time.
She didn’t have to suffer this, didn’t have to bear witness, trapped and silently screaming as she slowly lost herself. She could go to Lethe now, drink of its waters. It was always there as a fallback, in the event that she could not endure this captivity any longer and simply wished to drown her sorrows. But then, if she no longer remembered who Hades was, what she’d done to her, why would she try to resist Hades’ silken tongue and her warm hands and warmer bed? No, she couldn’t bear that. Lethe was not an option, not unless she wanted to let Hades win.
She was turning a corner when she almost ran into a young scribe, his arms overburdened with scrolls.
“Forgive me,” he stammered, dropping a scroll.
Persephone leaned down and picked it up for him. She caught a glimpse of its contents as she handed it back: tallies of the dead, organized by date of arrival. “It’s late,” she said, not without sympathy. “Is Hades keeping you up all night with work?”
The man’s face flushed a deep red, the same red as the acne he had not thought to erase from his self-image, now that he was dead. “The work is an honor,” he said, eyes downcast. “I bring news for Hades’ attention.”
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. “I found you first,” Persephone said. “Let’s walk together, and you can tell me on the way.”
The man quailed but did as he was told, speaking quickly and walking even more quickly. “The number of new arrivals has almost doubled since the same time last year,” he said.
Persephone frowned. “Is there a war?”
He shook his head.
They entered the dining hall together, but Hades was nowhere to be seen.
Persephone hailed a serving girl. “Where is your queen?” she asked.
“She has gone to the Plain of Judgment,” the girl said.
Persephone looked to the scribe. “Come on, then.”
The man had seemed somewhat relieved to find Hades gone, but now he turned to Persephone and gulped. “Horses make me nauseous.”
“We’ll just have to manage,” Persephone said.
She took a torch and went to the stables, all but dragging the scribe behind her, and borrowed a chariot. The man hugged his scrolls to his chest and hung onto the chariot rails, white-knuckled.
She found Hades on a small rise overlooking the Plain of Judgment. Persephone hopped out of the chariot whilst it was still moving, leaving the scribe to bring the horses to a complete stop, and walked over to where Hades was standing.
Hades did not turn to look at her as Persephone approached. She seemed small against the vast surroundings, the Tyrian purple of her chiton appearing almost black under the night sky. The wind pulled at her skirts and flickered the torch that Persephone held to light her way.
Persephone glanced down at the line of the dead below them. It was not just the very young and old, as was customary at this time of year, but whole families, including adults who looked to be in their prime. All showed some degree of emaciation, their hair falling out, cheeks sunken and hollow, their features lit by the torches they carried.
“A famine?” Persephone asked.
“I knew the numbers were unusually high,” Hades said, as though talking to herself. “I should have paid closer attention. The ranges were consistent with natural fluctuation. But now...”
“Queen Hades,” the scribe said, dropping to his knees a few steps behind them. “I’ve looked at the figures for the last few months, and the deaths keep increasing. The growth seems to be exponential.”
“What does that mean?” Persephone asked.
Hades turned to her at last, her eyes completely black from edge to edge. “It means someone up there is not doing her duty,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of affect.
Despite knowing she was not the target of Hades’ ire, Persephone trembled. She looked down again. There could be no mistaking it; these people had all been starving before they’d died. “There has to be some other explanation,” she said. “My mother would not abandon her duty, not when this is the result. Demeter knows that harvest quotas must be met—”
“Demeter is a selfish malakismeni, and she always has been!” Hades snapped.
Persephone gasped and pressed her fingertips to her lips in horror. Behind her, the scribe trembled on his knees, his forehead touching the ground.
Hades seemed to notice him for the first time. “You,” she said. “Come with me. I must send several missives tonight.”
The scribe scrambled to his feet, his head bobbing in agreement.
“What can I do to help?” Persephone asked.
Hades’ mouth twisted, the corners down-turned. “Talk to the dead. Confirm their story.”
“Of course,” Persephone said, grateful to have something to do. “There will be some other reason for this,” she added.
“We shall see.”