It's been a delicate line to walk: being attentive but not possessive, lavishing her with attention but not obsession, when his personality inherently runs to the latter. He hadn't managed that balance well in recent centuries; Hades' attention had become cloying, treating his wife like a treasured possession rather than a person in her own right. He had come earlier and earlier, like a moody master trying to yank a dog back to heel.
The harder he clutched at her, the more she seemed to slip out of his grasp (like wrestling Proteus, that bastard). Seizing her jaw and trying to turn her and force her to look at him only made her gaze more flinty, made her look into the distance over his shoulder rather than meet his eye. Thus, the paradox: to love something, you had to let it go.
And so he'd let her go. His bird flew away and this time, she came home. Persephone scurries off that train like the young girl she hasn't been in eons, and she flies right to his side: her hand reaching out to his face, and he tilts his grizzled bearded jaw into her hand and he exhales into the touch. He feels his tight shoulders shedding a weight and a tension he's been carrying for these six full months, the half of the year when all his foremen and managers and assistants know to give the king a wide berth, avoiding his snappish moods and shorter temper and stormy silences.
But she's back, and she brings daylight with her, and the station already seems the brighter for it. Hades, too, seems to brighten with a near-boyish smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Welcome home, Persephone," he says, calling her by name rather than wife, and he leans forward and crushes his mouth against hers.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2022-04-28 09:08 pm (UTC)The harder he clutched at her, the more she seemed to slip out of his grasp (like wrestling Proteus, that bastard). Seizing her jaw and trying to turn her and force her to look at him only made her gaze more flinty, made her look into the distance over his shoulder rather than meet his eye. Thus, the paradox: to love something, you had to let it go.
And so he'd let her go. His bird flew away and this time, she came home. Persephone scurries off that train like the young girl she hasn't been in eons, and she flies right to his side: her hand reaching out to his face, and he tilts his grizzled bearded jaw into her hand and he exhales into the touch. He feels his tight shoulders shedding a weight and a tension he's been carrying for these six full months, the half of the year when all his foremen and managers and assistants know to give the king a wide berth, avoiding his snappish moods and shorter temper and stormy silences.
But she's back, and she brings daylight with her, and the station already seems the brighter for it. Hades, too, seems to brighten with a near-boyish smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Welcome home, Persephone," he says, calling her by name rather than wife, and he leans forward and crushes his mouth against hers.