Disclaimer: I don't own SS or the myth
Listening to: Rachmaninoff…
A Silence Nocturne
by Yukitarina
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Leaving the underworld is hardly a thorny thing for Persephone, regarding to the fact that she never loves the gloom or the coldness within.
Spring has begun and she will reach the Earth to see Demeter, the mother. The Earth is filled with blooms, with candy-like colours which neglect the gray and the black ones. That is what she truly loves. Her spirit rises up when she realizes nobody in the underworld will ever miss her.
Including her husband.
Persephone inhales a deep breath as she fastens the pouch containing her remarkable stuffs—pomegranate seeds, a handful of grain, a bottle of Elysion water, and a couple of mint. She stares at the mirror before abandoning her murky bedroom. The image of a long-black-haired woman with cherry-ripen lips looks definitely strange for her. Maybe she has turned mad for almost forgetting her own visage, but this is not an unusual thing, given that she has been uninterested in anything related to herself. Given that she cultivates the idea that she is meaningless, worthless, abandoned. Her countenance is just the small part of the things she has forgotten: her birthday, her rank as the queen of underworld, her glory.
And her husband.
Her hand is a bit trembling as she is about to take a comb, causing her knocking a jug of fragrance to the floor. She lowers her back to seize it, and when she straightens her body, she sees another countenance in her mirror.
The countenance of her husband.
"Shall you truly leave?" asks Hades. A raven perches for a while on his shoulder. When the raven flies away, its feathers shower Hades like confetti.
"The winter occurs when Demeter is grieving her daughter's departure to the underworld," says Persephone, with lucid, echoing voice sounds too far away. "Spring occurs when Persephone returns to the world and reunites with her mother. Surely I will leave this terrain, just the same as a year before. A hundred years before. A thousand years before. And nobody has ever been able to do me any obstacle."
Including my husband.
Hades nods slowly. His feature is cold still, with those usual empty green orbs. He gazes at his wife who has pale-orange gown covering her body, contrasting her charcoal hair. Persephone never fits spring-hues, but she does not fit the dimness of underworld either. For she lives in between.
"We shall meet in the beginning of wintry days," Persephone bows elegantly in front of her husband. After gazing at Hades for a moment, she leaves and disappears.
On her journey she keeps asking the way she means to the dark lord. Perhaps she is but a trophy with no purpose other than supporting his power. Or a forgotten chandelier functioned as a forgotten adornment.
Hades never treats her sweetly. Or if he ever did, it soon will be ruined by his deeds in the next couple hours, when he is encircled by the nymphs who seem all thirsty with his attention. Persephone never finds anyone so easy to leave and turn away. Or the one who has bestowed misery more than she can endure.
Except her husband.
She keeps torturing herself by thinking on Hades's affair with Elysion nymphs that she is not aware she has arrived at the Earth, in the midst of an enchanting flowery field. The colours and sweet fragrance meet the warm air. The blue sky is canopying the world, the clouds are furnishing its heart. Persephone swirls elegantly, imagining the companion of musical instrument, imagining its tranquil and peaceful sway. She lets herself drowning inside her monologue dance, though a countenance keeps appearing in her mind and interrupting.
The countenance of her husband.
Why can't Persephone leave her longer than three seasons?
Why Hades never leaves her and proposed to those Elysion nymphs instead?
Inside her imaginary nocturne, Persephone prolongs dancing, without realizing that in the underworld, Hades is doing something he also did a year before. A hundred years before. A thousand years before.
He writes a letter he never sends to Persephone.
His ink flows freely on the parchment he gazes on almost tenderly. Hades writes for a long moment, not because of the length of the letter, but because he carves every alphabet marvelously that it almost resembles a painting. Then he puts the letter on the mountains of the previous ones, inside a sealed alcove that no one but him has knowledge of.
But poor Hades. He fails shutting the alcove, for untamed wind suddenly comes from nowhere and causes the letters soaring wildly, neglecting Hades who tries futilely to reach them. The ages letters, whom he thinks will live eternal in his secretive shrine, are leaving him. Hades stares at them impassively, questioning whether his handwritings will turn to be no more than wastes.
The letters depart the underworld, caressed by the wind and entering the Earth smoothly. They are floating elegantly beneath the sky, swirling to search for a destination, and finally showering Persephone who still dances by the presence of hyacinth, tulip, aster, ylang-ylang, vanilla, and whatever the names of the flowers are.
Persephone halts dancing when one of the letters is landing softly on her hand. She is soon enthralled by the handwriting she has known for ages.
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Per-se-fo-ni, is the way I spell your name.
It never ceases dwelling on my remembrance, even when you are far away. Even when I am escorted by the nymphs or sirens you desperately despise.
I met you when you harvested a garland of flowers in the Earth, smelling its fragrance as if no other scented ones nevermore. I instantaneously tempted to abduct you for only one reason: power. I had wished to win you, treating you as a goblet dedicated to my murky world. I had considered you as a tool.
But the thought vanished the first time you left the underworld for the sake of the spring.
I was stricken to the fact that I could remember your name. Even when you were far away.
I was even able to memorize all forms of your name. Persephone, Persephoneia, Persephassa, Proserpina, Kore. And the spelling of your name. Per-se-fo-ni.
I never could memorize the names of the women I have abducted. I cannot remember the name of the nymphs, sirens, or else.
But I could always remember yours. Persephone.
I do not know if you do remember my name. I cannot even imagine it. My name only creates fear and darkness, and nobody deserves to be tortured by such reminiscence.
I am not to be forgiven. And given that I am no human, I am powerless in redeeming my deeds.
But I need you to return. I need somebody to tell me the meaning behind this.
The reason why I, for eternity, am able to remember your name …
… even when you are far away.
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Warm tears circle down Persephone's cheeks, moistening the mortal flowers. The breeze is blowing still, the letters keep flying softly, escorted by the petals that bathe her devotedly.
And so Persephone wanders, still with the letter in her hands. With the elegance in her moves. With the shadow of the one she will intent to. The one who, to her astonishment, thinks of her eternally and believes her as the exceptional.
Her husband.
As Persephone returns to Hades' side, the snow is falling all over again …
… implying the delay of the spring.
-End-