One

Springtime's Wakeup Call

(or)

A Broken Poet

That's what I'm working on…

A song so beautiful

It brings the world back into tune

Back into time

and all the flowers will bloom…

When you become my wife.

Orpheus.

Persephone eyed the drink with a cautious glance, the red wine taunting her with what she could've sworn was a vicious wink. It had been almost six months since she'd felt the silk slide of bitter liquid down her throat - a harrowing, exhausting six months that, she wouldn't lie, had tainted what was usually her favourite time of year.

But she had made a promise.

Not to anyone verbally, of course. Indeed, Persephone was a lovely lady, but she was also a thoughtful one. One that wasn't stupid enough to hold herself to anybody else's standard, one that would never give a single soul the opportunity to look at her and be able to say, 'I know you failed'.

No. No one had, or ever would have, that kind of power over her.

But all the same, Persephone had made a promise to herself and it was one that she had all intentions of keeping. So, she hissed at that glass of wine left on the beaten and broken table, as if it could be scared off by such a thing, (yet know that, if it had been animated the wine most certainly would have scurried off in a fright) and walked on deeper into the bar.

Persephone often questioned why this bar, out of all the forgotten restaurants and poor clubs in this bleak and grey town, was where everybody always seemed to be. The question didn't stem from the bar lacking in anyway, – it was a niche sort of place; wooden and cramped and intimate – with low ceilings and warm lighting that seemed to wrap you up in a crushing embrace, smile and croon 'welcome back'. No, the question stemmed from the bar's proximity to the station - and to the steaming black train that stood idle there, waiting.

It was almost as though the bar stood in reckless defiance, baiting the station with it's… well what else could it be called but it's… aliveness. The members of the band whistled with delight as she waltzed on pass, and Persephone offered a soft caress of a warm breeze as means of a response. She watched as a violin was raised to the sky, a chord struck, and the crowd cheered. At the sight of her, many seemed to simply evaporate from their seats, gravitating towards the excited bartender. He knew that when he looked under the bar the barrels would be full, and the food in the kitchen would be plentiful. Simply waiting where it had not been moments before.

'I hope she's brought that fancy cheese'

'That'll be two…no make that three for me - thank you!'

Persephone watched the faces of men and women alike light up with delight. Those who waited in line started to dance, to tap their feet – just as they had the night before, and the night before that.

Yes, this bar was nothing short of alive. Perhaps that is why Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, loved it so much.

'Hello again, dear', a smooth raspy voice spoke behind her. She could hear it's smile.

'Hermes' she chimed, taking his arm and pulling him in close.

Hermes was a break of fresh air in his shining silver suit and feather decked boots – he always had been. A reminder, how very non subtle it was, of her life down below. A splash of grey that didn't make her heart sink. An embrace of what life was, but also what it could be.

The sentiment caused an image to flash across her mind, but it had already faded away by the time she tried to notice it.

Hermes took a few steps backwards, bringing Persephone out onto the open floor. Another cheer. A round of clapping. He stepped ever so slightly to the right, and suddenly they were swaying. The two Gods never once out of time with the soulful music as they spun and jumped amongst the people.

Persephone took a glance at her old friend as they gave into the music. She frowned as she noticed the how the lines on his face had deepened, the hollows of his cheek sunken. Hermes smiled at her, as if in acknowledgement of what he knew she saw, and even the smile was small.

Not forced – when it came to Hermes he was never anything short of real – but the gesture lacked the very essence of the man she had known so long.

They slowed, a guitar in the distance plucking a high-strung note, signalling the end of the song.

'It's almost time' Hermes murmured.

'I know' Persephone answered, though it hadn't been a question. It was all she could think about these days; all that was left was a mere few weeks and then back down she would go. Back to her husband, her love. To the underworld, her hate. Yet the idea filled her with anticipation and excitement, the usual dread lying dormant in her mind.

For this time, everything would be different. If nothing else, this time she would be sober, and he would be willing. If they both kept to their promises.

'And yet', Persephone continued, , 'it's been over five months Hermes, five months and I have hardly seen –'

Hermes raised his hand; a gesture of silence Persephone would hardly tolerate for any other person. But with Hermes she allowed, for he had been the very beacon in her darkness, the light that had accompanied her on every dreary train ride, every sleepless journey, back down to the underworld.

'You know where I've been' he said.

'The boy' Persephone stated simply. Hermes nodded.

'How is he?'

Upon that question Hermes looked at Persephone in a way he had never looked at her before. A glare speckled with anger and hatred, his nostrils flared, his voice icy; 'How do you think?'

Of course, Persephone knew what the boy had done. How he, Orpheus, had sentenced his love - the feisty and rough Eurydice - to a lifetime of service to the underworld. All with one fateful glance.

'I hardly think that should be directed at me, Hermes' Persephone flipped a long tangle of curls over her shoulder, taking a flask from between her breasts and bringing it to her lips. She was met with only water – dreadful, awful and plain water. She sighed.

As Persephone went to return the flask beneath her bodice, Hermes hands moved from the small of her back to around her wrist. He pulled her around other dancing couples to a haltering stop just at the beginning (or end – whichever way one was to look at it) of the dance floor.

'I know you Persephone, and I am, well to say the least I am surprised, because I never took you for a doormat'. Hermes simply stated the fact, as if known to all, the ice in his voice gone.

Persephone wheeled, 'I am not –'

'To stand complacent to your husband's will, to turn your face to the ache of a boy who is responsible for mending your –'

'Nothing is mended yet, Hermes, you know that.'

'Then who will be responsible for mending your marriage, for mending the world.'

'I don't know what you would like me to do' Persephone growled, 'He made the deal. He knew what was at stake'.

Persephone thought she could make out a frown on Hermes face, but she wasn't sure. He shrugged as he began to do the buttons of his coat. 'I don't know Seph…' the god murmured, 'I don't know'.

Within a blink of Persephone's eye, he turned and was gone.

Just what was Hermes implying? That she was at fault? What she had said was true – if the boy had waited another mere moment, if he had simply trusted that Eurydice would follow… The boy was a fool. Did he not know that her husband would never walk back on a deal – never had, in the entire lifetime she had known and loved him? Better yet, what use had come from checking what was behind him?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She pulled out a stool from beneath the bar and sat, her legs crossed, as she ordered a soda from the bartender. Her gave a laugh, making sure she hadn't meant something else. Rather than retaliate with a snap, as was custom of Persephone these days, she barely gave the bartender a second glance.

For something else had caught her eye.

A boy hunched over a table in the far back corner, his hair long and shading his face. But beneath the matted and unbrushed hair were his eyes. Orpheus' eyes, brown and cold and…

Dead.

He clutched a drink in his hand, his clothes unkept and unclean (but then again from the moment she first saw him, first heard his music, they had always been). Perhaps what was most startling about the sight of him however, was his guitar, his lyre, broken in two and leant against the back door. The neck was snapped, the strings curled around shards of chipped wood.

'He doesn't really move from over there, if you were wondering' The bartender scoffed. 'I've been told not to touch him, so I leave him be…' He trailed off, almost as though he was expecting Persephone to be astonished at such a disservice.

Persephone didn't know what this feeling was, but her chest burned in places she didn't know existed, making it almost impossible to breathe. This was the poet, the musician who had moved the world. He had moved Hades, of all immovable, stone hearted people, towards love! Surely by now, she had thought, he would've found love again.

But he wasn't singing anymore.

Was it her fault? Could she have done more?

'Actually' Persephone managed to grit out, 'I'll have something, anything – on the rocks.'

And she waited, anxious for the moment she could forget. Forget and wipe this scene from her memory.