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If only she could torture him. If she was truly meant to be Queen of the Underworld she could easily do it, but how could she ever learn to become that? To become the queen Hades believed she had the potential to be?
Pelops was right. She would never be a queen. Not to his people, or Hades’ people—her people.
Learn what they love, who they love, and use it against them.
Hades’ words reverberated off her skull as she approached the gates, a cacophony of his words and voice and pain banging against her mind and soul. The pain he brought her was nothing compared to how deep Pelops had sliced her with his own.
They both deserved to be tormented for a few centuries.
“I should have let him die,” she mumbled, kicking at a small tuft of grass, her foot connecting with a small rock and sending it skidding across the ground. “If I had, then I wouldn’t be here, faced with the impossible task of ruling the Land of the Dead. Of helping Hades torture souls, deserving or not.”
When she reached the rock again she kicked it once more, shutting her eyes to listen to it scrape against the ground. It stopped abruptly, landing in the grey grass that covered most of the ground here.
“This is all my fault,” she said quietly, crouching to the ground. “I begged Hades to bring him back. I just couldn’t stay away from him, could I? No, I had to see him and try to make him fall in love with me all over again. I could not just leave it alone.” She slumped onto the ground, letting her knees fall open to the sides as she laid back onto the grass. “Hades did not have to kill him again though, that is not my fault.”
“That most certainly is your fault,” Hades said.
Persephone didn’t open her eyes. “Some people find spying rude.”
“I could not care less.”
“I know,” she sighed.
There was a hollow thump beside her, and a calming mint filled the air around her head as Hades lay there with her.
“You did not have to make me watch you kill him—”
“I don’t need to justify my actions.”
“And then push me off a cliff to Tartaros,” she continued, ignoring him, “and let me wander that dark, decrepit place for ten whole years.” She tugged at the grass at her side, pulling handfuls of it out of the dry earth. “Then—” her voice cracked and she swallowed it down, determined not to cry when she was so angry with him. “You made me watch him decompose onto the floor. I saw his skin melt off his bones into a pile at my feet, and you don’t think you should have to justify that to me?”
Hades said nothing, his calm, gentle breathing the only indication he still laid beside her. Persephone pressed her lips closed and bit down hard on her cheek. If he wasn’t going to speak, neither was she.
“What a despicable thing to do to someone,” she said, unable to keep her mouth shut. “King of the Dead or not, that was a horrible thing to put me through, Hades.”
She turned her head to look at him, but he was gone. Clenching her teeth, she thought about seeking him out and throttling him, hurting him in some way to get back at him, even for just a second before he retaliated.
Revenge was all she wanted, and Hades had told her exactly how to get it.
Learn what they love, who they love, and use it against them.
Persephone went through a short list of what Hades loved, what and who she could weaponize against him, manipulate him through. It consisted of one name: Persephone.
All she knew about her husband was that he had wanted her. That, and the immense joy he felt from his job as ruler of the Dead. The answer was simple: she would torture Hades by doing his job better than him.
“Make him miserable by being better at the only thing he loves,” she mumbled, careful not to use his name and summon him back to her. “Torture him by torturing others, I can do that.” Standing up and wiping the grass and dirt from her behind, she stalked through the house, searching for Hades.
Before she could find him she passed a floor-to-ceiling mirror and stopped in front of it. The frame it was melded into was a bland, dull gold. It was smooth, not even a carved flower marred the flat expanse of gold. The lack of decoration annoyed her; of course the only plain and boring piece of gold she had ever seen belonged to Hades. He was so desperate to be different, to not be lumped together with the Olympians or worse, mortals.
Her reflection stared back at her. Her eyes were red, the skin underneath a deep purple, stark against the blood-drained skin. It was too thin and pale, dark gold veins clearly visible beneath. She was frightening.
“How hard can it be?” She asked her reflection. “Just learn what they love, who they love, and use it against them,” she chanted to herself, staring into her own wide eyes, pretending to believe it.
Quickly, she dragged her fingers through her hair, snagging roughly on the knots and pulling at the strands enough to bring tears to her eyes. Pinching her lips and cheeks to draw some colour back into her pallid skin, to cover the sickly colour she had taken. She straightened the black linen clipped at her shoulders and draped the veil over her head.
She looked like her mother, like a perfectly coif, put-together and respectable matron. If she swapped the black for white, and her hair was several shades lighter; if her eyes held more life, and feeling inside, she could be mistaken for Demeter.
All she needed was the golden crown Hades had given her at their wedding, and she would look her part as Queen. It was seated on a small pillow in Hades’ bedchamber, easy enough to take.
