Hades actually counts it this time, carving out the days and weeks like an inventory: tallymarks on the iron wall, carved into his ledger with a pearl-handled knife, and he abides to the exact letter of his arrangement. He can feel the earth warming above, waking up and coming alive to his wife's presence, while the underworld turns colder and darker and grimmer for her absence.
He pours himself into projects to keep himself busy. A new factory. A new expansion to the mines. Renovations to the speakeasy; his guise of benign negligence is gone, no longer pretending doesn't know about it. The girl is surprisingly good as a manager, or perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised: she's a spendthrift, good with resources, balancing the books, and not taking on more than she can handle. She manages a tight ship of employees. She sings at night, and the king sometimes takes a seat at the back of the smoky room, at a cordoned-off table in the VIP section, and he listens to her.
It's not the same voice as the lady of the underground, but it's good. It lifts the workers' spirits; brightens them after a long hard day in the mines, and it's like a little bit of sunshine down here after all.
Six months.
When the day comes, Hades decides to show that he can be patient, compared to the disaster which was his impatience last autumn. So he lets the train go up by itself to fetch her, and knows she's handling her goodbyes above. He stays underground at the lonely station instead, waiting for that metal beast to descend, watching for its headlight down the single railroad track, trusting in her to come home even when he's not there to drag her back.
It's not fixed. Their relationship can't all be fixed that instantaneously — not after years, centuries of bitterness and anger and their squabbles, a rift in the world torn open by their marital disagreements. Not when he occasionally catches sight of the girl looking distant, a distracted songbird, staring off down the railroad track to the road she can no longer walk.
But it's a start. It's an attempt. It's progress. He stands on the platform waiting for the train to arrive and to greet his wife, sunglasses tucked into his pocket, an armful of asphodels in his hands.
we'll try again next fall.
Hades actually counts it this time, carving out the days and weeks like an inventory: tallymarks on the iron wall, carved into his ledger with a pearl-handled knife, and he abides to the exact letter of his arrangement. He can feel the earth warming above, waking up and coming alive to his wife's presence, while the underworld turns colder and darker and grimmer for her absence.
He pours himself into projects to keep himself busy. A new factory. A new expansion to the mines. Renovations to the speakeasy; his guise of benign negligence is gone, no longer pretending doesn't know about it. The girl is surprisingly good as a manager, or perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised: she's a spendthrift, good with resources, balancing the books, and not taking on more than she can handle. She manages a tight ship of employees. She sings at night, and the king sometimes takes a seat at the back of the smoky room, at a cordoned-off table in the VIP section, and he listens to her.
It's not the same voice as the lady of the underground, but it's good. It lifts the workers' spirits; brightens them after a long hard day in the mines, and it's like a little bit of sunshine down here after all.
Six months.
When the day comes, Hades decides to show that he can be patient, compared to the disaster which was his impatience last autumn. So he lets the train go up by itself to fetch her, and knows she's handling her goodbyes above. He stays underground at the lonely station instead, waiting for that metal beast to descend, watching for its headlight down the single railroad track, trusting in her to come home even when he's not there to drag her back.
It's not fixed. Their relationship can't all be fixed that instantaneously — not after years, centuries of bitterness and anger and their squabbles, a rift in the world torn open by their marital disagreements. Not when he occasionally catches sight of the girl looking distant, a distracted songbird, staring off down the railroad track to the road she can no longer walk.
But it's a start. It's an attempt. It's progress. He stands on the platform waiting for the train to arrive and to greet his wife, sunglasses tucked into his pocket, an armful of asphodels in his hands.