Lady Persephone used to speak; at least, that's what the senior workers say between whispers on their shifts. They can't give specifics, mind you, but those with enough memory of the time before the work became truly endless recall the queen's world-weary gaze softening at the sight of their faces. The encouraging words she gave them made the mines just a little more bearable, the cracks in the wall a little wider. It's even rumored she used to smile, so bright it could light up a room better than Hadestown itself.
But that was before everything changed with Mr. Hades and Lady Persephone; newer workers rarely have time to ask what happened or why, but when they do, the older workers reveal, in hushed tones, that Lady Persephone used to leave the safety of the underground to go among mortals. There's no need to whisper that Mr. Hades would disapprove of such an idea, but braver workers speculate that once upon a time, he wasn't completely opposed to it. The softest whispers, hidden in the deepest cracks and what shadows can still be found, tell of one of those mortals that made his way down to Hadestown, searching for someone he loved. Their names were lost to the Great Beyond when he failed, the story going with him.
The workers take some comfort in that it was a long time ago, far too long to have any of their fragile hopes crushed by the weight of failure. Whatever happened back then, or didn't happen, is irrelevant with the scope and scale of the project that Mr. Hades reminds them is an utmost privilege to work on.
The sound of a steam whistle pierces the air, the signal that the latest crop of workers has arrived. The psychopomp Hermes is instantly recognizable by his sunglasses, the same kind Mr. Hades is rumored to have worn once, long ago. But while the Lord of the Underworld supposedly wore them to shield his eyes from the surface and its light, Hermes wears them for protection against the fire of Hadestown that grows hotter and brighter by the day. With so many new arrivals, he doesn't spend much time on the surface anymore.
The new workers file off the train and instinctively shield their eyes from Hadestown's splendor, a habit that every newcomer has but soon learns to break. When they've adjusted, Mr. Hades breathlessly explains that all they see and hear in Hadestown, all its light and warmth, is for the benefit of his beloved wife—even if, he jests with barely concealed pride, she hasn't yet learned to appreciate the gesture. But he's sure she will eventually, and until such time, he expects the workers to dedicate every part of themselves to seeing it through.
Hades dismisses the arrivals to the trained eyes of the foremen, who ensure every incoming soul fits their assigned task. The workers' duties are many, and varied. Newer workers are assigned to the mines, the steel mills, or the assembly lines, with standouts placed to work on the enormous wall that surrounds Hadestown—the name is a bit of a misnomer these days, as it's extended to the ceiling and beyond, enclosing the city and all inside it safely within. But a wall is what it began as, and a wall is what Hades calls it, and with so much work to be done, always, there's no time to waste on pointless questions.
Hades observes the workers attending to his creation and nods in respect. Not one brick is out of place nor a single light unlit, and with any luck, today will be the day Persephone understands at last. With that comforting hope in the back of his mind, the God of the Dead raises a hand and gestures for the foremen, and they quickly approach their king.
"Bring her in," Hades says tiredly, half-dazzled by the warmth and beauty of Hadestown and half-hoping that this time will be the last time. At his command, the foremen instantly obey; soon Lady Persephone herself arrives, unwillingly, at her husband's side. The Queen of the Dead doesn't say a word as Hades dismisses his men and leads her to her assigned chair, taking his seat beside her like it's any other outing. After some concentration and a wave of Hades' hand, the ground beneath their feet shifts and rises until they rest at the pinnacle of Hadestown, looking down at all beneath them.
"Look, Persephone," Hades says, spreading his arms wide at the splendor before them. "Look out at all I've built for you. Every day, I pray you'll see it and smile."
At Hades' command it all coalesces in a tapestry of electricity and heat, bright enough to make Persephone squint and turn away. He mutters something under his breath about the light not being enough, just loud enough for her to catch, and the scowl on her face only deepens as she looks out and sees what her husband refuses to. Persephone sees light that could banish the eternal darkness of winter, and heat that could chase away even the bitterest surface frost. Were she in her old domain, permitted, even encouraged, to leave, she knows she could coax Hades into helping the mortals that would soon be under his thumb regardless.
But she is not a goddess of spring anymore, not when there is no spring, or summer, or fall, not when workers file in endlessly from the cold. As her thoughts grow darker and colder, so unlike the city she presides over, Persephone thinks she sees a glimpse of the future. The lights of Hadestown eclipse even the sun, just as Hades has wished, and it doesn't matter that it's too bright to see anything, for all he's wanted her to see is the result of his efforts. The heat smolders and chokes without pause, without rest, but if the workers complain, none can hear over the crackling of fires and furnaces. The wall grows steadily thicker until it swallows the entire underworld, neither king nor queen able to move—but still he smiles, for he has always wanted Persephone to never leave.
"I see you're ungrateful," he hisses in her ear, cutting the vision short, and she snaps her head away so he won't see her tears. "But don't be unkind," Hades tries, an air of concession his voice when she knows it's anything but.
"It's your name in lights out there, you know, on every marquee in the Underworld. Anyone else would be envious." He crosses to Persephone's chair and smiles, letting his eternal symphony wash over them both, a front-row seat until the end of the world or the end of her stubborn refusal, whichever comes first.
Hades watches her expectantly, waiting for a reaction that isn't vitriol, spite, and sorrow. And despite it all, some quiet part of her loves him still, begs for something to end his madness. Persephone wonders if she forced a smile, forced herself to say that she loved Hadestown and all he's done, if he would finally relent, but that would be a lie she couldn't live with.
The thought strikes her that maybe if she reminded him how he'd once loved her, just her, without any need to prove it to either of them, all would be well. At that, she almost smiles, and Hades' eyes widen with hope at the twitch of her mouth. But in an instant it falls flat—she's forgotten that old song, and the noise of Hadestown drowns out all thoughts but one.
Hades is not discouraged; if anything, her almost-reaction invigorates him. At a snap of his fingers, the workers ready for another show, their minds and bodies just another instrument he conducts.
"Believe me, Persephone," the Lord of the Dead rumbles, anger and frustration and what he dare not call hatred in his voice. The tears in Hades' eyes prickle as he meets her sorrowful gaze. "Everything I do, I do it for the love of you."
She's heard that for millennia now, as constant as what used to be their goodbyes, and something inside her breaks.
Persephone faces him, unblinking, and breathes in deep, finding her voice for the first time in an eternity.
"What does that mean?"
Hades stares and cannot answer.