#Hadestober

[alyona11]

Hadestober

Day 2: A Dance That Lasted a Moment

I love the dance scene and you know that. Really love how this drawing turned out.

#my art #hadestown #hadestober #hades #persephone #hadestown fanart #hadestown broadway #hadestown musical #patrick page #amber gray #hades x persephone

[markrodin]

day 5 of our #hadestober — Song as long as time.

#hadestown #hadestober #hades #persephone #hades and persephone #challenge #inktober #traditional #hadestown musical

[acequeenking]

Hadestober #12

12. Cage of Gold –Hades knows how to build a cage; problem is, he knows when he’s falling in one too. (Hades/Seph, T/light M, brief mentions of sexual activity)

A man ain’t much different than a bowerbird when it comes to the romance, Mister Hades figures. You make a nest. Glitter it up as best you can. Offer a female an elaborate dance or gift. Watch her reaction. Dance away; leave her the ultimate choice. Let her come to you. Was always his method of operation and once upon a time, worked mighty nice. Not that he was ever quite the sort to kiss and tell, but – mighty nice indeed.

Except for Persephone. Girl is half his age but leaves his head in a right flummox. First, was her who bared her neck at him, who called his attention: called him blind, all but dared him to court her. Danced like sin, sang like a canary.

Left an impression.

So he’s done his dance for her. Made up the room the way he thought she’d enjoy, with décor laced with silver flowers and golden trellises. Offered her enough silver and gold jewelry that when she comes to his house, her fingers are all but dripping with jewels.

Dances away. Offers her an invitation.

She doesn’t come.

Persephone ain’t the type to do anything but take her time, seems like. Well. He tries to wait her out, but the girl’s smile and her laugh (which is sharper than it is sweet and would be considered by most gods to be a drawback but then, Mr. Hades has never been most gods) loom large in his mind. He tries to think of other women, but that cutting smile and those big eyes just echo in his mind. Must be pig-blind if you ain’t noticed me; well, he could sure see her now.

So a man, despite his pride, which would be considered a drawback by most gods but never to he himself (what is a man worth if he can’t even hold up his own head with pride?) – well, maybe he goes up top.

Maybe he pays her a visit.

And maybe she smiles, and the smile is sharp. “Took you long enough.” That’s what she says to him, King Hades, King of all that lives and loves and lies beneath the earth.

And he says: “Hmm.” And she laughs, and she flashes him a bit of ankle.

“I can’t leave, so much.” She gestures up toward a fine little old clapboard house. “My ma ain’t the type to allow inter-realm travel.” The little eye-roll she gives is proof enough of what Persephone thinks of such rules. Interesting that she conforms to them anyway.

Now Mr. Hades has not spent much time with mother nature. Somewhat opposites, Mr. Hades and Mother Nature; different fields, different interests. Polite chit-chat at parties only, you understand.

“I see.” He says. “Might have mentioned that,” he says.

She bats her coquettish eyelashes at him, deliberately lays down on the grass. Supposed to be the man’s job to make the bower-nest, but Persephone herself is a nature goddess and such, he quickly learns, is a bit easy for their kind. Might even be considered cheating. “Why don’t you come over here and I’ll make it up to you?”

Mr. Hades has his pride, ain’t the type to obey a woman’s beck and call, or anyone else’s. But it turns out when a pretty girl cocks a finger at him, well, most of Mr. Hades’ hard-won pride just plain flies out the window. She kisses him breathless, senseless, and by the time the fireworks are over they’re both laying out on their nest, breathing heavy, and Mr. Hades, well, he may have had his fill but he still ain’t any less besotted.

“Here,” he says, with a voice rendered down to croaking. He decks the girl’s fingers in a band of gold.

“You ain’t got to give me a present.” She drops his ring back into his finger, a subtle rejection. “Just come back some time.”

His hand closes around it, a bit stunned. Ain’t never been a woman who’s said as such, and not to toot his own horn, but, he’s met more than a few women in his day. 

“May well do that,” he says, delicately. He grabs her hand, puts the ring back on it. Wants her to be marked; wants anyone whose anyone to look at her hand and see such a brand. “But you wear that to think of me ‘til I do.”

“Alright.” Her hair is blowing in a new breeze; she’s already standing, liable to flee, and he wants nothing to but to clamp gold around her hands, gold around her hair, until she’s so well marked she couldn’t go anywhere without someone knowing who favors this girl. “I’ll wear it, if I wanna.”

“I’ll hope you want to often,” he says, but she skitters away, doesn’t offer a commitment.Just one of those pretty little smiles.

And that is the sort of move that drives a man such as himself mad. Mr. Hades goes back home, and he thinks about that pretty head of curls, that wicked smile. Normally, a man such as himself is not the kind to pay a woman one visit, let along several.

But for her: he’s a mighty flexible man.

He might have gotten his ring round her finger, but frankly the man wonders if maybe she’s slipped golden chairs round his arms, for he finds himself snapped back to the surface at even the thought of that bright, sharp little smith.  He holds out a week at first; there she is, and he places a second ring on her hand. He holds out only a few days next, then less: day after day he comes, and day after day finds new reason to come back.Gives her enough shiny things girl all but glows with his mark.

But the problem for the bower-bird is, sometimes it’s not the male who builds the trap.

“You should marry me, you know,” she says, laying in the field, body spent but spirit ever-wanting her. “Seeing as you come around so much anyway.”

Well. A bower-bird might be wise enough to see the trap sprung, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hop in, even if the situation is unusual. Been a gambling man long enough to know such odds are long but not totally unlikely. And openings to such a enchanting creature comes rare; might be she’s ensnared him, but, judging by those rings, well, he’s ensnared her too.

And so Mr. Hades finds he is a very flexible man indeed.

“Think I’d mighty like that,” he drawls, and closes the cage with one last bit of gold and stone, flashed across the last bit of unclaimed space on her ring finger.

#Hades #Hadestown #Hadestober #Persephone #Hades/Persephone #Hades (Hadestown) #Persephone (Hadestown)

[anais-mitchell]

Damn I didn’t realize Hadestober was a thing. Wish I could have prepared content, but at least there will be a whole lot of new content to rb :-)

#kira speaks

[alyona11]

Day 4: A Flower In A Town of Steal and Stone

It’s literally “try not to draw Hades and Persephone every day” challenge and I’m failing.

#my art #hadestober #hadestown #hadestown fanart #hadestown broadway #hadestown musical #hades #persephone #hades x persephone #amber gray #patrick page

[alyona11]

Catching up with Hadestober very slowly.

Day 1: Railroad Track

Made me think of Orpheus and Wait for Me, so...

#my art #hadestown #hadestober #hadestown fanart #hadestown musical #hadestown broadway #orpheus #reeve carney

[markrodin]

day 3 of our #hadestober — Touched by the Gods.

#hadestown #hadestober #hadestown musical #Orpheus #reeve carney #sketch #traditional #inktober #challenge

[markrodin]

#1 - Railroad track.

join our #hadestober challenge!

#hadestober #hadestown #hades #persephone #inktober #challenge #hadestown musical #hades and persephone

[alyona11]

Me and @markrodin made a Hadestown prompt list for October! Feel free to use it and tag it #hadestober! 

The only rule is to have fun making Hadestown-related stuff! So if you wanna use it as a writing/collage/edit prompt you may do it as well! When it comes to drawing use whatever media you like best.

I hope to start the challenge once I’m done with my practice and I wanna try do make it a watercolor challenge for myself. 

#hadestown #drawing prompts #Hadestown musical #hadestown broadway #hadestown fanart #hadestober #musical theater #Broadway

[acequeenking]

Hadestober #8

 Man With Feathers on His Feet - Hermes comes to Hades office with questions. Mr. Hades offers him a drink. (T; post-canon, Hades/Persephone and Hades & Hermes¹)

Mr. Hades watches Hermes; it is not often that his nephew comes into his office.  Mr. Hermes, by now, has surely heard the girl’s fate: gossip never seems to last long before it arrives on Mr. Hermes doorstep. Hades is not and has never quite been sure whether Hermes goes out of his way to find it, or if he’s just simply so fast he’s always running into the drama first hand. Either way, ain’t quite his business, and Mr. Hades doesn’t suffer from the terrible desire to know every little thing on earth the way most of his relatives do. Never was curious beyond his measure. Get burned that way. 

“Quiet here now,” Hermes says. What he means is: Hadestown’s quiet, the mills and the mines not going overtime. And that is true. He has not gone there to crack the whip. He cannot, not just as of yet. Even a dog as old as he needs time to lick his wounds.

Or run a victory lap, as the case may be. Suppose he’s won the day, ain’t he? Proved his case. Love ain’t enough, no matter how much he wants it to be.

“Always quiet, this time of year.” He shoots back; what he means is: my house is empty. What he also means: you yourself is the cause, always taking her away from me. Not his fault entirely but Mr. Hades keeps his grudges. “Missus does make her absence known.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hermes’ mouth shifts into a grin that once might have been cocksure; now, it’s too weathered for that. They’re all too weathered for that. “Sister makes herself known in all contexts.”

“That she does.” He smiles. Always liked that about his bride. Most girls played demure, but not his. Never his. First time she looked at him, he felt the ring of fire ‘round his throat and he had liked it. Knew right then and right there that he would marry her, whatever the gossip on Olympus.

Already misses her. His throat tightens. Funny how the icy absence of the woman hurt more than the scalding heat of her gaze.

“Drink?” He asks. Proper to be polite and Mr. Hades is always proper. Despite his grumpy reputation there’s rules to be obeyed, and he’s not unfamiliar with the requirements of playing host.

“Always been fond of a beer,” Hermes says.

“Whiskeys all I got.” Doesn’t keep the stocks so well-watered with poisons, so to speak, without his wife around to guzzle them down.

And he himself has never been one for soft liquors. Ain’t worth drinking if it doesn’t burn your throat.

“Please.” He nods at the desperation in his voice; Hermes has heard about the boy, then. He pours Hermes a double. Hermes nods appreciatively.

“Thanks, kindly.” Hades serves himself his own glass.

“To Persephone,” Hermes offers, which surprises Hades, but he’ll not contest it. An agreeable enough toast.

“To the queen.”

They clink their glasses together. Hermes swallows down his whiskey in one long gulp; Hades does the same. Neither of them says anything for a long, long moment.Both, he suspects, making the measure of the other. Hermes never does come for a social call to Mr. Hades.

“Rather thought you might offer the toast for Orpheus,” Hades says, finally breaking the silence.

Hermes shrugs. “Won’t help him, now.” Hermes says it flatly, without a hint of emotion. That feels off; Hermes has never been a stoic one.

“Thought you might be calling to…hmmm,” he pauses, studies Hermes. Hermes looks tired more than anything else. Certainly drained, and Hades cannot blame him there. He feels drained, too. Mr. Hades stares at his cards and opts to fold. He’s a big enough fellow that he doesn’t have to play the game when he doesn’t want to. “Renegotiate. For your boy.”

“Uncle,” Hermes says, quiet. Odd; he ain’t called Hades such often, though such is true. Their relationship has never quite been so close, and, frankly, ain’t a lot of people on earth Mr. Hades ain’t uncle to, given his brother’s proclivities to screw anything and everything that moves. Hermes goes quiet again, and Hades wordlessly refills his tumbler. Can afford to be generous can’t he, Mr. Hades who has his wife’s love, Mr. Hades who has his souls still toiling, Mr. Hades who has everything but proof that love and love alone is enough and therefore ought to feel a damn sight happier than he does?

“Thanks.” Hermes clears his throat. “As I was saying.”

“Yes.” He puts his boots up on the desk, pours himself a double. He should be happy, should be gloating his power. He ain’t.

“Only a fool attempts to renegotiate when the other party has all the power.” He cocks one eyebrow, looks Hades dead in the eye. “And I am a lot of things, Mr. Hades, but I sure as hell ain’t a fool.”

He laughs, despite his own melancholy. Hermes is many things indeed. And not a damn one of them is a fool.

“Boy broke the rules. He failed the trial. Wish it wasn’t so, but…” Hermes sighs. “Simple as that. Simple as that.”

“Yes.” Hades frowns into his glass. Wasn’t as if he wanted the boy to fail. Wasn’t as if he wasn’t hoping desperately for some – any – other result. Sure he knew the odds were long. Always has been a fan of the long-shot ponies, Mr. Hades. Paid off for him many a time, though gambling does tend to fall under his purview. “Why are you here, Hermes?”

“My job. Ferrying souls to where they need to go.” He puts down the glass on Mr. Hades table with a definitive bang, and Hades feels a chill come over him.

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m where I’m supposed to be, boy. Bigger forces than you dictated that.” Older forces than him. If he could undo it, he would have centuries ago.

“Yes and no.” Hermes folds his hands into his lap. He looks confident, like he’s gone through this before, though such is of course right impossible, impossible to the right highest order. Mr. Hades has a very good memory. And a very long one. And he would have recalled such before.

“What?” He thumps his own hand on the table, time to call a spade a spade. “Cut the bullshit.”

Hermes smirks slightly. “I’ve always liked that about you, uncle. Never stand much on ceremony, no matter how many times we’ve been through this.” The eerie feeling of a spider walking down his back bristles the back of Mr. Hades neck, and Mr. Hades, himself being a man who has refused to be intimidated upon many an occasion, even in in his incredibly long life, keeps his face perfectly still.

“You’re wondering, I know.” Hermes looks directly at him, eyes still tired, emotion still muted. “Why you think it feels familiar. Why when I say when we’ve been through this before, you feel like spiders go walking down your neck.”

Hades gives no indication of being frightened; however, he does reach for the phone at his desk, and he does most certainly reminds his fingers not to shake as he dials the one number he has memorized above all others.

“She’s fine, but by all means.” Hermes waives a hand. “Go ahead.”

He punches the numbers in hard, each one a punctuated silent statement. He doesn’t take his eyes off Hermes as he puts the reciever up to his year. It rings. Hermes blinks. It rings again. Click - someone’s picked up.

“Hello,” he says; prays its the daughter and not the mother. More likely than not his mother in law will hang up on him.

“Hey,” comes his wife’s voice: soft, concerned. “You…alright?”

Now that is off-tempo; normally ,Persephone would be full of fire if he dared to call for anything short of an emergency; ain’t his time, she’s too free up there and as such cannot  to be tied down with telephone wire when there’s fruit to grow and vines to climb, yadda yadda.

“I’m fine,” he says, though he is not. “You fine?“ 

"Told you, she is,” Hermes says, and Hades gives him a glare.

“Yeah, of course.” She snorts. “You sure you’re fine?” Hermes raises his eyebrows, as if to suggest see?

“Hermes is here.” He changes his topic. “Guess I just…wanted to make sure you made the trip safe. Himself is being a bit coy about such."  Now for many women, such would lead to questions like now why would he do that, but Persephone is way too smart to be distracted by the obvious question.

"Those kids–” She clears her throat. “I looked and I didn’t find them. Are they…?”

“Call you back,” he says, and hangs up.

Hermes raises his eyebrows. “You could have told her.”

“It’s a private conversation,” he snaps. “Now: what do you mean we’ve been through this before?”

Hermes spreads out his arms, and the feathers dangle underneath. “Been through this before. Lots of times. Fates keep playing with us.” He takes a deep sip of his whiskey, and Hades listens carefully on every word. “Every time, the story ends wrong, so…” He shrugs.

“Every time someone starts it again.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to sense a time-loop. Doesn’t. But then, when have the fates ever made anything easy for him? Hermes doesn’t look distressed about the situation, and that alone tells him the key piece of information Hermes has left unsaid.

“You’re the one starting it,” he murmurs. “You are." 

Hermes nods. "A favor, from the fates. Not easy to sweet talk them but…” He smiles. “Always had a silver tongue, Mr. Hades.”

“Golden tongue,” he admits; such was never a talent of his. “But the Fates must certainly ask high prices, charmed or not.”

“Very.” He holds his arms out again, and Hades notices now how threadbare they are, the spaces between the feathers. “Running out of chances, I’m afraid. Not a lot of feathers left.”

“So you’re giving up?” He is not sure if he is upset at the thought or not. Mr. Hades has won: won the girl, won his wife, won the town and all the souls therein. Won everything but his own happiness.

“No.” Hermes stares at him, clearly expecting him to offer up something that he does not. He clears his empty tumbler, takes Hermes as well, sets them neatly back on the tray.

“What do you want, Hermes?” He raps his knuckle on the table. “Say it plain for an old man.”

“I want the girl.” Hermes raises an eyebrow. “Fates won’t mess with the souls that aren’t on the table, so to speak. Got to have capital to gamble. Her soul’s…well, you know.”

“Hm.” He snorts. “Only a fool, nephew, tries to negotiate without something to bargain with.” Hermes nods his head, says nothing. Mr. Hades calls the play. “So what are you offering me?”

“Rewind time, and you get her back again sooner. Close your eyes, and when you open them…” He snaps his fingers. “There she is, on the veranda, drinking your whiskey, playing your games. Skip the six months. And if things go right, well..maybe spare her the problem of the girl. Simpler, easier. That’s why you have to - have to forget. Her, too.”

“Hm.” It’s a better offer than he’d like it to be. He has many souls; he has only one wife. And her absence pulls like a yolk at his neck, and he would do just about anything to get rid of it. “Fine.”

He digs through the contracts on his desk; finds the girl’s. Holds it out.

“Splendid.” Hermes rises; always has places to go, the man with feathers on his feet. “I’ll be going then.”

“One thing.” Hermes turns back to face him, already half out the room. “Persephone and I, do we…do we ever make it? Any time?” He does not quite say what he is asking: do I ever wait? Is it always bad? Has there ever been a time when we were in love without such complications? If Orpheus fails every time, then so must Hades, as well?

“Only one way to find out,” Hermes says; he smiles, but Hades knows well enough that he’s dodged the question. 

Still. He lets him go. Part of being a king, to know when to let things go, and when to demand tribute. Today, he lets him go. Today, he is charitable.

He closes his eyes, waits for things to change. Won’t be that long, he knows.

And maybe things will work out this time.

Rashly, before time can start over, before Mr. Hades can allow himself to think too much about it, he redials the same number he’d dialed while Hermes was around. Risking her wrath, dialing twice, but he’s willing to play the game: she won’t remember this, anyway. 

"Yes?” His wife says. Her voice is curious; he’s lucky,he knows, that she picked up, and not her mother.

“Forgot to say I love ya.” He says, and he smiles. “Always did, you know.”

If the world has to end– or end for now – better fire than ice, he thinks, and lets the flames take him.

#Hadestown #Hadestober #Hermes #Hades #Hades (Hadestown) #Hermes (Hadestown) #apologies that this evidently went on people's dashes without a cut #tumblr mobile evidently ate it

[markrodin]

Day 2 of our Hadestober — A dance that lasted a moment.

#hadestober #hadestown #hadestown musical #hades #Persephone #hades and persephone #inktober #challenge

[acequeenking]

Hadestober #13

13) Take My Hand - Persephone goes down to the Underworld for the first time after Orpheus manages to get it right. (T, Hermes & Persephone, Hades/Persephone)

Persephone drinks the summer away. Doesn’t trust the man to hold to his own promises, not anymore, not after having been burned so many times. She drinks away a good half of May, June, and even July.

“Might want to slow down, green thang,” Hermes says, gives her a weak little smile. She gives him a sharp-eyed glare.

“Sooner or later, he’s likely to ruin it.” She sips down her whiskey, good and burning. He’d introduced her to whiskey long ago: ‘fore that, she was more liable to get drunk with something out of her mama’s wares, a little wine, a little potash. “Always does. Kinda his job, you know, ruinin’ things. Entropy’s a bit of a bitch.”

“Your man don’t seem to have ruined everything.” He flicks his head over at Orpheus and Eurydice, his little boy and their runaway-now-staying-put, giggling over at the bar. Persephone remembers being that much in love. Eurydice thumbs Orpheus’ suspenders, and Persephone’s heart cracks a little bit at a familiarity she can just barely remember feeling.

“A stopped clock is right, once or twice.” She shoots back, then swallows down her liquor.

“All I’m saying is…” Hermes waves his hand, with a weariness she doesn’t think man has any right to feel. Isn’t like they’ve been in circumstances such as this before. “Nothing will change if you don’t try.”

“I’ll try,” she says, after guzzling down the last of her whiskey. “When and what I feel like.”

“Alright,” Hermes’ says, and says it a bit sad, and there’s a twinge in her chest there, knowing as always that he is her closest brother, and she is somehow fucking this summer all up despite his caring. Mama always said there’d be days like this. “Just think about it, for me? For him?”

His eyes gravitate toward the young couple: Orpheus holds out his hand, and Eurydice takes it, smiling like she ain’t just had to walk out of hell not two months ago. Persephone wonders, idly, what Eurydice did with those old worker’s clothes. Probably burned them.

She would.

“I’ll think about it,” she says. “Best I can do.”

“That’s enough,” Hermes says, but the tone says it plain: no, it ain’t.

Persephone drinks her way through a variety of infrequently sampled delights through September. Been rare, right rare, for her to be up so late, thanks to Mr. Lover-I-Was-Lonely, Mr. Lover-I-Was-Despairing no longer showing up so early, by some miracle, well, she has some time to burn and preferably burn down some of her gullet with it. Hard cider ain’t never been her favorite, but it’s a good novelty and she sips her cup while she mulls Mr. Hermes’ words right up til it’s time ot wait for Mr. Hades clarion-bell.

Because the thing is: Hermes is not half-right. Persephone doesn’t owe her old ball and chain much; ask anybody downstairs, and they would tell you – well, after you pour a little firewater in’em –  that their lady has been the one dealing with most of his bullshit, not the other way around.  Her problem is one that they keep dancing around, because she can’t bend herself down to get out of it, no matter how much he wants her to: six months up, six months down. Holy route, and they’ve all seen what happens when she doesn’t keep to schedule.

Man might as well ask brother Paulie not to make the sun shine. Some things just ain’t – ain’t malleable. Fixed. And her husband just isn’t built to be able to accept it for long.

Except, of course, that he seems to be awful quiet. So mayhaps he finally has.

“What’s he doing down there?” She asks, half-fearing the answer, because there are a lot of desperate women and now she is well aware that he’s willing to look for replacements if pushed far enough. Asks it casual of Hermes, asks it over her gin and tonic, fizzy with hope. “My old husband.”

Hermes raises an eyebrow at her. “Think he’s waitin’ for you.”

“And how, pray tell is he waiting?” She takes a drink, presses the subject.

Hermes just shakes his head. Refusing to give up the goods, and odds are good the reason is that Mr. Hads himself is holding him to such. But it isn’t out of nature for Hermes to play coy.

“Waiting alone,” Hermes says, quiet. “I’ll say that much.”

She gives him a sour look and he just laughs, won’t say more.

“Just wait and see, green thang. Wait and see.” She sips at her drink, but she doesn’t feel like drinking. Lousy old Hermes just seems to suck the fun out of it all.

“I don’t do well anymore,” she says, quiet. “Not with his surprises.”

“Maybe it’s not a surprise,” Hermes says. He reaches out, holds her hand for a good long moment, squeezes it, drops it. “Maybe it’s just what it is, sunshine-sister.”

They don’t talk a long while after that; Seph spends her time watching Orpheus tend bar, Miss Eurydice helping him out by serving the patrons. But, since Hermes gets relatively few customers, well, it’s mostly Persephone playing looky-loo and watching the kids make eyes at one another. She wonders: were they ever like that? Himself and herself? Were they ever quite so innocent? She doesn’t think so. Himself was jaded from the beginning, and well…she weren’t far behind. Always been the type to just cling to what she could take and not expect much more than that. Cup half-empty kind of girl, you know? Kind who always has to fill her cup, least she think too much about herself.

She stares at Eurydice, perhaps a bit overlong; girl blushes at the attention and moves next to Orpheus, who holds her so easily, and for a moment, Persephone feels a bright jealousy take ahold her heart; been many a year since her husband has done more than hold her hand in public. Was a time when she made that mountain of a man bend to kiss her.

Hermes must see the despair on her face because he tuts and grabs her hand once more.

“You know how rare it is, for a man to know how good he’s got?” Hermes says, in a low voice. “Even the kids, simple as they are, can’t tell a good thing too often til they lose it. Trust me. I been around. I know.”

“Your point?” Persephone might be almost as old as time, but it ain’t necessarily made her patient. Critical flaw that seems to flow through most of her kind.

But not Hermes.

“It’s a miracle, ain’t it?” He smiles, a little too pointedly, old Hermes. “To love someone so much you fear the second they ain’t in your sight.”

“Starts off feeling romantic,” Persephone says dryly. “But trust me, Hermes, it gets old, being appreciated like that.”

He looks at her; nods twice more. She looks at the serious look on his face and notices, for the first time, how his suit is looking a little bit more threadbare than it used to.  Didn’t he used to have some feathers round that jacket? Seems a time she could recall him being proud of such.

“Can’t tell you that your reasons against him ain’t good ones,” Hermes says. “Lord knows, you two have had your ups and your downs. More downs than ups, I know. But take it from a man who ain’t never – never felt that urge to tie myself down—”

She rolls her eyes; only thing to do, with such an uncomfortable speech. Never liked these big emotional speeches; give her a moment’s tic or tell. The unsaid, brother, sometimes says it a lot more comfortably.

“Well…” Hermes cleared his throat. “Seems to me that it’s rare enough, two people finding one another like that, falling out and then in love, over and over again. Almost miraculous, right?”

“We’re gods, if you believe in miracles at this age…” He cuts her off, with one elegant hand.

“I believe in optimism. Always got a chance of turning better, sister.” His eyes glitter. “If, perhaps, someone gives such a chance…”

She bats her hand away. “Maybe I’ll consider it,” she says, finally. She stares down at Orpheus and Eurydice: Orpheus holds out his hand, and there’s the girl, grinning, taking that hand, so easy, so easy. Maybe that’s youth, she thinks, that slip of hand in hand, so easy, not weighed down by history. Or maybe it’s love, where you ignore the weight of it all because you believe, for one moment, that weight shared is weight eased.

And as she tries to think of a return, a bonmot, a repartee to Hermes’ great big speech, well, she don’t get the chance. She’s silenced as a high train whistle roars.

Hermes flips back his fancy sleeve, checks his watch. “Right on time, sister,” he says. He rises. “Best be goin’.”

And Persephone, well, she thinks: suppose it’s time. She grabs her coat, and it feels heavy on her shoulders, if smaller than the gordian knot in her belly. Hermes offers her his arm, ever the gentleman, but she shakes her head, not in the mood to share.

She’s a bit drunk, and she doesn’t need any distraction besides her husband himself.

“Orpheus,” Hermes says, too casual: “Watch the bar.”

She looks behind, sees the kids smiling at the bar. Doesn’t seem like they’ve heard at all, and for a brief, bitter moment, she envies them. Then she’s out, and she’s walking.

And the train door is there all too quickly.

And a man steps out all too fast.

There’s nothing different about him in particular: same white hair, same dark eyes, same Cheshire smile, same obnoxious glasses. He thinks they make him look young, but they don’t. She stares at him carefully, neutrally: he smiles, flicks off the hated glasses.

And she sees in that moment how his eyes tick, the nervousness that is evident in them; sees the redness of his ears and cheeks, the heavy breath that tells her that he’s been thinking of this moment for dozens of hours. And it’s that, more than any speech of Hermes’ or any glimpses of the young ones, that renders her heart softer towards the man: the way that hand shakes just a lil’ bit when he reaches for her, because he’s nervous. Mr. Hades is a mighty king, but she reduced him to a man once. Seems liable she might be able to again.

“Hey,” he says, the most neutral of all openings. She’d critique it but she, too, struggles to find words, the snappish openings of so many years having erased the old kindliness.

“Hey,” she says. Disgusting neutral, careful in a way they’ve never been. But neutral is safe, and maybe she takes his hand and grips it, and maybe he doesn’t mention the alcohol on her breath, and maybe when he pulls her toward her, well, maybe his hand doesn’t feel heavy after all.

Maybe she’s a fool for thinking that, but she does, and when he leans close to give her a kiss on her cheek after how-long, well: she believes, she believes.

“Let’s go home,” she says. And she holds him tight, and she steps on that train, and they go together to parts simultaneously too-well-known and too-unknown all at once.

But at least they go together.

#Hadestown #Hades/Persephone #Hades #Hadestober #Hermes #Persephone #Persephone (Hadestown) #Hades (Hadestown) #Hermes (Hadestown) #So somehow I am 10 days? Behind? Sigh #Stupid school and work #it will be the end of me #anyway #I'm going to keep trying to update until I fulfill all 30 though clearly its gonna take me more than october gdi

[acequeenking]

Hadestober 5

5) Song As Long as Time - Hades loves his wife, always and forever. And therein lies the rub. (T; mentions of Persephone’s drug/alcohol abuse)

A man chooses his wife carefully, and that goes double for the immortal type. Least Hades had always thought so.

Hades was the last of his siblings to settle – well, the last of the ones liable to settle. He’d had plenty of time to see all the ways it could go bad. Had gone bad. Thought he could avoid the pitfalls. Married a pretty young thing, smart as a whip and just as mean, and he liked them pretty and young and mean. Kept his head down, kept her needs sated, and kept her fingers drenched in diamonds.

And still, he has fallen. Ain’t no doubt about it. One look at his wife today—every day—tells him this much.

Here is his wife, settling into her seat on the veranda, looking slightly sauced. Her first priority, of course, is setting down the two liquor bottles she’s carried from who knows where. He’s tried to get rid of the juice, but she’s outwitted him in where she hides it. And it used to be just one, but was a time when he wasn’t getting enough out of the bottle to fill his cup before she’d drunk it all, so now there’s the two and the little flask she’s taken to keeping at her breast aside. (Times is, a man feels like that flask is meant specifically to block his affections, for it caresses her heart more than he himself does.)

He tries to remember, settling down to games with his wife: has this ever worked out well? Marriage in his kind? He thinks: there’s sister Hera, of course, more devoted than almost any of the rest of them and therefore always chasing her husband, while her husband goes chasing everything that lives and breathes. Further back: mama Rhea handed them the means to seize the production of Mount Olympus, not that Hades got much of that beyond the satisfaction of seeing his father cast down to Tartarus; before that even, well, there’s his grandma, cutting a bit off of grandpa when he wanted a bit of comfort one time too many.

Always swore he wouldn’t be one of them, one of the ones whose marriage turned to salt. Had meant it when he married. He had put aside the thought of the thought of having anyone else share his bed or his life beyond this one girl; this one, precious girl. Put a lot of work into this marriage, Mr. Hades has.  And she, too, has tried: she’s stayed true to him, shares at least six months out of every twelve which is less than he wants but more than he is, strictly speaking, obligated to. Sleeps in his bed, most nights, long as she ain’t passed out somewhere else. Still comes to play dominoes at any time in which he asks.

So why does he feel so alone?

His wife flutters her fan; hot down here. Doubtless she’ll complain about the heat or the lights in a moment or two, even though she’d always loved those slick, bright summer days best, back in their courtship. Seems to hate it now, but then she’d loved him too, then, and no longer seems to hold him so sacred to her heart.

“Bright down here,” His wife grouses, right on time. The usual complaint, where once she would have said hello or I missed you or Ain’t you a sight for these sore eyes or some such. He gives her a thin, tired smile, doesn’t offer a word.  What can he do? They have had this argument so many times and she has never changed her opinion even once, no matter how many times a man has pointed out the reasons for the heat: his forges, his fires, his business. She profits just as much from it. Where does her ever-consumptive need for alcohol get sated, if not in his coffers?

She doesn’t say anything in response to his silence, but she starts her drink. He takes note of it: glug, glug, glug. Downs it all in one drop. His wife has always been a thirsty thing; time was, she was thirsty to know him, too. Was a time when the world was young, and she made him feel young, too. 

He holds out his cup, wordlessly begging for a bit of her fruit of their vine. He hates that their relationship has come to this: this is the nicest she ever is to him, anymore, smiling lightly as she tipples a little bit of her poison his her cup. Pours herself a second, arranges the game. Smiles again, and again maybe he hopes just a bit, just a bit.

“Thank you,” he says, hoping he’ll be lucky and it might make her smile a little bit more. 

“Hades,” she says. Then, unexpected: her face cracks into that desperately wanted smile, and his heart beats faster. He dares to hope. 

“Yes?” He says. He likes it when she says his name. Never was a god who turned down a bit of worship in having their name called so very sweetly like, and Hades himself ain’t no exception.

She looks at him, puts down a domino. He pairs it with another, pair of sevens; lucky. Does feel lucky. What he wouldn’t give for her to reach out her hand. He stretches out his fingers.

She picks up the drink instead. Sucks a little bit of it down, not a lot. She trying to get up the courage to make a move toward him? Who knows.

Was a time he knew her well. But that time is not now. Which makes it all the more painful that he still loves her more than anything else; loves her with all his ancient heart beating. She doesn’t even look at him, just licks the rim of her glass.  “Hm.” She giggles. “Hmm." 

"Careful,” he says, knowing it might well provoke a negative reaction but what is a man to do? Can’t just let her go to the drink, can he? Wouldn’t be a good husband if he doesn’t try, surely? She snorts, plays another play: 7-7-7, straight up to heaven. She’ll be going back up above soon enough, spring ain’t that fair away. His mouth hardens at the thought. 

“Hades,” she says, again, this time more playful. She touches his hand; then, she giggles and touches it again, and again. His smile vanishes. His wife is on something. And nothing good.

“What are you doing?” He asks. 

She takes a long sip of her drink. Plays a 4. Plenty of cultures, that’s his sign; here, he doesn’t think about it. Focused totally on her, on the wife who he loves more than anything. 

She just giggles, apropos of nothing. At nothing. Persephone is staring at the fucking wall like it’s a riot, and she’s so studiously not looking at him, he’d almost think it was on purpose. 

“Hades,” she says, again. “Hades." 

"What are you on?” He asks, as realization dawns: this is not drunkenness. This is - this is something else. And whatever she is on, whatever poison pill or plant or vapor she’s found, she must have taken it right before she got to him. She must have had to have it to get herself to go to the old man, her old ball and chain, and when did he get demoted to such? He has tried so hard. He stands, crosses the table, tugs her up. He wants to strangle her. He wants to hold her close and sob deeply into her until she is fully drenched in his sorrows.

He is deeply, deeply afraid of both feelings.

She doesn’t protest much when he grabs her, which worries him more. She tucks her hands onto his chest, pauses at his heavy old heart. He wonders: Does she know? Know how it beats for love for her? How it always has. How it always will. Does it even matter to her, anymore?

He does not know.

“Persephone,” he murmurs. “What’s gotten into you?" 

"Just some good-time stuff,” she says soft. “Wanna relax.” Her pupils are large, so large; how had he not noticed? Stupid. He hates her ingesting the stupid human poisons. It scares him as she rubs her cheek against his own, and he does not know if its because he hates the thought of something else having her attention, or the thought that such things may harm her, or the thought that she cannot stand him even so much as to greet him even remotely sober. 

But because he loves her so much, he does not resist when she rubs her chin against his throat, seeking contact. It is the closest they have been since the train ride, where her knees brushed his own.  

“Hades,” she murmurs; she is still giggling, though he himself is not at all amused. But she is not entirely here, no? Not at all.

He pulls his large arms around her, wraps them tight, and tries to remember a garden long ago. She puts her arms around his neck, holds him as tight as he holds her.

But instead of feeling reassured, all he feels the pain of that flask, poking him right in the heart. 

#Hadestown #Hadestober #Hades #Persephone #Hades/Persephone #Persephone (Hadestown) #Sad one this one #Whoops #Tw: drugs #tw: alcohol

[acequeenking]

2) A Dance That Lasts a Moment  - Sometimes, our lady of the upside down drops her guard.

Hades/Persephone, Persephone & the workers (T, pre-canon, canon-typical mentions of Persephone’s alcoholism)

Nobody likes it when the lord and the lady fight.

Mister Hades, himself, ruler of every bit of Hadestown and every bit in between, well, he likes it least of all, and he’s more than a little liable to take it out on us worker bees. Can always tell how much the Lord and the Lady are fighting by the quota numbers: when its bad, Mr. Hades sets them sky high, so high that he himself conveniently cannot go home, that we ourselves must do double shifts, or sometimes triple; and that the lady herself will have to do without him.

None of us like it when that happens. Lord Hades, he’s not what one would call a patient man. He tries, sometimes, but he just ain’t got the temperament. When his wife spits mad, well, he spits mad too, but he spits more at us than her. And when you are the one he’s working well past your death, well, you don’t feel so kindly toward the man. 

And its been bad for a while. Double shifts more the rule than the exception. And all workers like us can do is keep our heads down low. Some of us made our choices sooner, and some of us made our choices later, but all of us chose to come down here, to toil away our time in Mr. Hades mines and mills, and while away our ever-more-limited free time in the missus’ speakeasy. We all like the speakeasy, and the lady by proxy.  Can’t hold the fighting against her, her who serves us so nicely. 

Now the missus has always been sharp in her tongue, just sharp in her tongue, when it concerns her husband, but she’s been kind to us. Come in to her speakeasy with a face covered in soot and she’ll scoff and give you a drink good enough to clean up your face and wipe your insides clean, too. Best part of being dead; ain’t no such thing as alcohol poisoning anymore. 

And our lady likes her drink. She can drink any of us workers under the table. Often does. Our lady ain’t dead but she’s a goddess; that or maybe time just moves so slow down here that it outright decided to just ignore our lady. “Ain’t so high and holy,” she’ll tell us, but we all know better.

Anyone who can drink like a fish and still keep this under the all-seeing eye of Mister Hades, well: she’s a bit of a hero for our kind. Normally she doesn’t say too much, save for complaining about her husband, or tutting about us. Knows us all by name, you know? We’ve been down here so long a lot of us don’t know our names, but our lady remembers. 

They say Mr. Hades is the god in charge down here. But we’re not so sure that’s the case. 

Sometimes, and only on the very worst of the days, the missus will relax her guard more; once in a while, she’ll leave the bar, start to hum this song. This little ditty, the sort of song that barely has words: la la la la la, she’ll say,and its gorgeous and ethereal as she is. And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, you’ll see her close her eyes and twirl her arms, and the lady will start to dance while she’s singing.

Ain’t never seen much like that. It’s hard to describe, but it’s a holy thing: when the lady dances, everyone watches. It’s not that she’s particularly graceful or nothin’; its that you see her unguarded in that moment, her eyes focused on some past time we’ve never seen. Sometimes, she whispers his name in a little sob. We all pretend not to hear, for her own sake. Our lady tries real hard not to be so maudlin. Suppose you need that, if you’re the queen of such a place. Never dances long neither. Couple minutes, maybe. Then the show’s over.

It seems to us, then, that her husband, well, whatever their problems: he’s a stupid man, because nothing is so sacred as her expression, and all the love in it. 

#Hadestober #Hadestown #Persephone #Persephone (Hadestown) #Hades #Hadestown fanfiction #hades/persephone

[acequeenking]

Hadestober #7

6) It Ain't Right, It' Aint Natural! _Eurydice has never met a man like Orpheus. Not once. (T)

Orpheus treats her nice. Nicer than anyone ever has. Nicer than she deserves.

"Hey," he says, every time he sees her coming. Always gives her a smile. Never asks her for money, for food, for shelter. Never beats her. Never once gave her a single thing expecting something in return.

She doesn't know how to deal with it. She keeps waiting for the rug to disappear under her feet, the sky rising up to meet her. He is like no one she has ever met, and she can't shake the idea that it's somehow just some big joke at her expense that she doesn’t get.

But she doesn't want it to be.

She goes over to the little cafe they met at every day, hoping to see him.

"Eurydice!" He says, with a big grin. He pulls out one of those red flowers he seemingly always i sable to pull from somewhere. She laughs. "A flower," he says. "for the...for the prettiest flower I've seen!"

The line is clearly rehearsed though he says it too fast; she sees Hermes shake his head in the background, his shoulders shaking, too, all from the effort not to laugh. Orpheus puts the flower in her hair and beams at her.

"Why don't you go kids go out?" Mr. Hermes says, turned away from them so, she thinks, he won't look at Orpheus and give away how amusing he thinks this all is. "It's a sunny day, afternoons are always slow...I can manage all my own."

She has to admit, she doesn't know who would be coming to this little, dusty bar in the afternoon.

"Really?" Orpheus' face is boyish, sweet; she's never been this happy. "Thank you, Mr. Hermes!"

"Anytime." Hermes smiles at her, gives her a little wink. "Go on, kids. The day is young, and so, it seems, are you."

"Thanks," she says, softly. He smiles at her, but there's something at the edges of it - a sort of pity, she thinks. It's in the way his eyes crinkle when they look at her, a sort of tired grace that suggests he knows her all too well.  It's a sort of enjoy the good times while they last, kids sort of look. She can't decide if it unnerves her because it looks like Hermes might know the good times are soon about to end, or if he's got some information about Orpheus he isn't telling her, or... Well, or a million other things.

"Anytime," Mr. Hermes says, and turns to open his window, letting some sun in. It's been a long time since he's had opportunity to, seems like; the window spills forth in a small puff of dust that flies into the air, looking like nothing so much as fireflies. Orpheus has been slacking on the windows she supposes. Occupied. With her.

But Hermes doesn't seem to mind.

"Come on!" Orpheus takes her hand, and takes her out the door. Doesn't tell her not to hold his hand in public because someone might walk by and see it; doesn't slap her hand away if she tries to go for a closeness he doesn’t feel like she’s earned. Doesn't even hesitate in trying to touch her. Just holds her hand.

There has to be something wrong with him. She's never met a guy like this.

"Let's go to the park!" Orpheus says. "While the weather is nice."

Weather isn't gonna be nice forever. Eurydice knows this. Knows it in her bones, knows no matter how far she runs and no matter how matter long she goes, sooner or later the weather will grow cold, and lately, it's been a lot colder a lot faster. Seems like there's only a few weeks of summer anymore, but its so nice to not have to bundle up in her coat right now. And it certainly isn't as if she's got anywhere else to be.

She's dropped off resumes just about everywhere.  And no one here is hiring.

"Look at the grass!" Orpheus grins and runs into the park, and she grins as he pulls her down onto the grass with him.

"It's so soft," he says, softly. "This is my favorite season, you know? You feel the grass just growing under your feet."

"Yeah," she says with a soft sigh. Eurydice has slept outside, and she'll take summer over any other season any day.

Her stomach rumbles, but Orpheus doesn't quite seem to hear it. He never does seem hungry much; she wishes she could ask him to give her a bite to eat.

But he is so, so nice, and she doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize her chances with him. He's like no one she's ever met, and she'll sacrifice a few days worth of begging to hang out with him. At least his arms keep her warm.

And when he smiles at her, it's like nothing else on earth. Tomorrow, she'll look again, and surely she'll find something quick. After all, it's summer now; not a hint of clouds in the sky. Got to be farmers hiring. Got to be someone hiring. Ain't summer the time for creating new things?

"I've got a new part of the song." Orpheus says this with a certain shyness, so humble of his talents, and again Eurydice is reminded how different he is from any other man she's ever seen. His  cheeks blush, his eyes are soft and sweet. "You inspired it, Eurydice. I think you're my — my muse."  And he smiles, and his smile is the sun, and it warms her, and it is not food but it it is something nearly as potent.

And the word is so sweet and so kind, what choice does she have but to kiss him? She does, and oh it is a good kiss; right and sweet and true, and more gentle than any man whose ever had a hand on her. "Sing it for me," she whispers, but it takes quite some time before he is able to, for first she must kiss him, again and again and again.

---

"Songbird." Eurydice shivers; the world spins underneath her feet as Mr. Hades closes the door to his office. "So glad you've decided to fly south."

She gives Mr. Hades a smile she does not feel, and he gives her the same in return. It's a horrible thing, that smile. Not moonlight, nor sunlight, but a great mass of nothingness, that smile, simply nothingness. He feels like a void, and she feels like she is being sent through it.

But he promises work. Food. And she doe snot have to say here indefinitely; a year here, a bit more cash saved up, and well she might be able to dash back up to the old town, to Orpheus. He'll forgive her plenty when he sees what she's saved working in the mines, she's sure. She's sure.

Except looking at him, she doesn't feel rather sure at all.

"I'm here," she says. He nods, seems distracted. "For work," she adds.

"Of course," he says, but his eyes have a wicked glint to them, eyes that suggest, as they did above, that such is not the case. "A hard days work for a bone to gnaw on." He sighs, does not elect to offer which bone he feels she should set her teeth to. "We all have such burdens."

And it feels like he will make hers so much heavier.

Still, her stomach is hungry. "Food included?"

"Food and board," he confirms; he is rooting through papers at his desk. He doesn't make eye contact with her, and that's fine, she does not want to look into those eyes, know if they are as much gravity wells as his horrible, rot-gut smile. "Much as you'll need," he says, a beat later. 

And that's got to be enough, she thinks. That's got to be enough. It doesn't matter that nothing about the man is right or natural, and the gnawing feeling to scream or run that runs through her belly — that doesn't matter either.

She just has to think of the promised suppers in his promised land — meat on the bone, bread softer than hardtack — and Eurydice signs the second he drops the papers in her lap. Doesn't feel the need to deliberate. She needs to eat.

Besides, it's only temporary, she thinks, dotting the i of her name and trying to ignore the ever-growing feeling that she's made a mistake.

"It's a good choice, songbird," he says; his hand lands on her shoulder and she can't remember him turning to stand behind her. Can’t remember him getting up at all. But She feels - cold. So cold.

"Why do you...?" She says, but stops, because there is no way to say "why do you have my hand on my shoulder?" to her boss who she realizes, suddenly, controls not only her wages but her food and her bed as well. She swallows the words, and anxiety churns in her soul. This was a mistake. This was a mistake. This was a mistake.

"Don't worry, songbird," he says, his voice sounding strange and thick and wrong. "You won't feel a thing, transferring over."

And she doesn't even the time to ask what he means before she's gone.

And the last thing she thinks, of course, is how much she wishes she was back with Orpheus, on that warm summer day.

#Hadestown #Hadestober #Orphydice #Orpheus #Eurydice #Eurydice (Hadestown) #Orpheus (Hadestown)

[acequeenking]

Hadestober 11

11) Wind comes up – Orpheus looks back, and falls apart. Hermes picks up the pieces. (Hermes & Orpheus, Hermes & the Fates)

Orpheus looks back. Hermes expects it, knows that the penny falls with his face turned back every single time, thus far. Knows this time is not any different. Still disappointed though, and for all the practice he has at this – frankly, too much – it doesn’t get any easier to comfort Orpheus through this long walk home.

“C’mon, kid,” he says, soft, because kid, what he used to call him back when Orpheus really was a kid, seems to stir Orpheus forward more.

“Eurydice,” he says; he always says. No matter how many times they’ve told the tale, he starts with the word Eurydice here, after the girl’s gone straight down to Hades’ waiting arms.

“Not now,” he says. He grabs Orpheus’ arm, tugs him forward. “Got to keep on keeping on.”

“I have to go back!” Orpheus wrenches his arm away, turns, runs down the alley for an entrance that’s no longer there. Hermes always tries to spare the boy and not once have his efforts ever amounted to anything and lord father above knows he has tried every god damn trick in the book to try to get his attention.

“You can’t.” He hates saying this, hates the way Orpheus looks at him: all slack jawed horror. “There’s rules. Living man can’t enter Hadestown twice.” Technically, living wasn’t supposed to enter it once at all, but demi-gods before Orpheus had forced Hades into some concessions. Namely: one shot at glory in the underworld. Rarely seemed to work out well.

“Does that mean…?” He watches Orpheus do the math in his own head. Orpheus isn’t a dumb boy; he figures out quickly that Eurydice only had one shot. Entered once living, once dead – she’s done. “Oh, Eurydice.”

This is the part that Hermes hates the most.

Orpheus bursts into tears, ugly and loud and wet. Thousands of years of life have somewhat blunted Hermes’ ability to feel so passionately – one gets more even-keeled as they get older, why even lord father above cooled his jets after a few years. Even sister Persephone, for all her passions – and she’s kept herself passionate better than most – even she didn’t start to cry when her husband started making motions as regards Eurydice and never has, not in the ridiculous amount of times that they’ve played this song. Thousands of years of life just tends to blunt one’s capacity for suffering, so seeing it written so loud and so painfully on Orpheus face just makes his job all the harder.

“Come on, kid,” Hermes murmurs; he opens his arms. They are not so affectionate so often anymore, now that Orpheus is a grown man, but today he opens his arms and today Orpheus flies into them.

“There there,” he says, soft. “It’s alright.”

But it isn’t, and he knows it isn’t. And despite all the ways that Hermes has attempted to change fate, playing out this story, it still doesn’t sting any less when Orpheus makes little gasps of grief on his shoulder, soaking it with his tears. Regrets? Hermes would tell you he has more than a few, and none so much as this moment.

And that is why despite telling Orpheus that it is a test and a trial, and warning him of the consequences thereof, Hermes finds himself, as always, after comforting him enough to get him back to the bar, sitting and sipping his sorrows, well, Hermes finds himself back on that hateful train, going down and back again to the ‘yonder side where the Fates themselves live.

Because Hermes himself is a powerful god, sure, but he is nothing in the sight of his child’s tears, and he would do anything to stop Orpheus from feeling the way he does.

That’s the other thing that happens when you live a long, long time: you understand loss pretty well.

And even for those who flirt between the worlds like Mr. Hermes himself, well, it never does get easier.

But, as usual, he gets his silver tongue to get him where he needs to go. Gets Mr. Hades to sign away his deed to the girl; gets himself past Hadestown and past Hades proper, and into the deepest and darkest sides of the world under the world.

The fates live in a part of the underworld best unseen; Hermes isn’t sure just how many gods can even reach it, anyway. Hades himself isn’t the sort to come see them, never was the kind to want to know the inevitable result of his actions. Pa used to be the sort to check in on ‘em, but they never gave Pa answers clear enough for his taste. Uncle earthshaker used to come by, once or twice, but ultimately found them boring. There’s things we’re not meant to know, he’d said, and everyone had laughed at that old banquet, long ago, but Hermes – now Hermes sees the wisdom old uncle held. He hates this place.

It is ugly and dank and old, unfathomably old. Smells like the sort of place where time is still new because time is always new. Looks like a place full of magic because it is a place full of magic. Hermes is pretty sure if he sat in the wrong place here, he’d forget his name for a thousand years and good father above alone knows what they would do with him. It is windy because – well, for whatever reason, the Fates like it windy. It reminds him that the winds are old gods, older than him, older than Hades. And so are the fates. It reminds him that there was a war, long before he was born. It reminds him that they were on opposite sides of it.

And perhaps their kind has not forgotten losing.

The ancient fates notice him quickly, as they always have. Hermes having his pride – not a lot but some – he refuses to give them any sort of welcome greeting. They are long beyond such anyway.

“Ah, he’s back,” says the first fate. She is grinning, red-cheeked, still flushed in her victory over Orpheus, over Eurydice.

“Did you enjoy that go?” Says fate number two, her tone mocking.

“Nothing ever changes,” says fate number three, in her voice full of the finality of the heat death of the universe. She looks at him and he wonders: what does it do to a person’s point of view to see the end of all things, forever? “Do you wish to go through the whole passion play again?”

Hermes nods, steels his expression into one that is severe. Old women like this smell weakness a mile off, and he’ll not tolerate them raising the price or refusing to help them. Always a delicate dance, dealing with gods older than the Olympians. “That’s right,” he says. Flatly. They’ll do it. They always do.

“Why bother?” Says fate three. “It will not change the result.”

“You’d think he’d learn that by now,” says fate number two. “Himself having seen this show so many times.”

“Maybe he’s slow-witted,” says fate number one. She stands up to him, gently raps her little knuckle against his brow. “Slugs for brains.”

“Fate can change,” he says. “From one fickle tip of your turban, my ladies, well, empires will rise.” He takes fate number one’s hand, kisses er palm. She titters, amused, as always. Romance is always the key to charming fate number one.

“And fall,” interrupts fate number three, hands on her hips. “There’s always a cost.”

Ah, he is fortunate. They’re moving into negotiations quickly this time. Sometimes he must woo each of the Fates for hours on end. Today the game has lost its luster. Ideally, their turning time back for him never will.

“I will pay the cost,” he says, already knowing they will ask for a feather. It’s all they’ve ever asked for. He is not quite certain why it is always a feather. Possibly because it hurts him. Possibly because every time he seems the damn girl, she’s got a feather tucked somewhere, and they enjoy giving him the reminder.

“Can’t afford to pay too much more,” says the first fate, holding out his arm. They never let him pick the feather; that being some of their ways that they work. He isn’t sure how he could cheat them, but whatever. He gets his own revenge; he won’t refer to them by name, even though he knows perfectly well which fate is which.

“Gotta accept it, sooner or later.” The third fate – the last fate – says. She is just watching. She will pluck, but not until fate number two selects it.

“Nothing ever changes,” says fate two. She runs her hands through his remaining feathers, threadbare as they are on this suit. Not sure if they’ll accept one of his other suits after this, but hell, maybe if they’re lucky they won’t need that, and he’s always been a sucker for the idea that penny will land, just once, on the right side. “Why do you persist?”

“Because the wind’s cold,” he says. “Because the world is harsh enough. Because I love my son.” Do the sisters love one another? Do they understand love? Sometimes he thinks they do. Sometimes he’s not so sure.

“Hmph.” The third fate does not like criticism. She grabs the feather the second has taken and plucks it, and he feels it go; the tell-tale feel of his stomach turning, half-nervous and half-eager to have it all be over, to have it all start again.

“Much obliged, ladies,” he calls.

“See you next time,” says the first, implying there will be.

“See you soon,” says the second, smiling slyly as she takes her repose next to her sister.

“See you on the other side,” says the third, waving sarcastically.

He doesn’t bother to answer. Hermes puts his hands in his pockets and completes the trip back to the surface, knowing that the girl will be there, and he will let her back in from the cold, and time being what it is will start once more.

But he feels lucky this time, and even with one feather down, well, Hermes keeps on hoping maybe this will be it. They’ll get it right, he thinks. They’ll get it. Won’t allow himself to think anything else.

And Mr. Hermes readies himself as he goes, so that by the time he’s coming off that train, he’s willing to sing it again, and again, and again.

#Hadestown #Hadestober #Hermes #Orpheus #Fates #Hermes (Hadestown) #Orpheus (Hadestown) #Fates (Hadestown)