lay me down in cold cypress

by oasisofataraxy

Summary:

The myth of Persephone/Hades reimagined in the way it is implied: Persephone is a young woman who is literally kidnapped by grown Hades and manipulated into staying with him for half the year and being wedded to him.

Suddenly, ludicrously, she understands why her mother’s eyes are as dead as they are and why her light had dimmed in place of her daughter.

Notes:

PLEASE read the tags if you haven't. This is not pro-Hades/Persephone. I am the world's biggest hater against it and this is conveyed through the tags. The original myth is genuinely horrifying and I am shocked as to how it was rewritten to frame Demeter as a bad mother and that Persephone willingly went (disregarding AUs about this). I feel like this work is exactly what the Rape of Proserpina is about.

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!

Chapter 1: mori

If the sky opens angrily with drops of water, Kore ponders, then it will be great for the coming planting. She adores the rain, much to the chagrin of her fellow Olympians, save for Ares. He lives for the thrill of washing the blood off and watching it spiral away. He is a character, but he is the first one who gets angry when a woman pays a price she never should have and so Kore appreciates him with smiles behind a mask.

If the Sun peeks through the blue sky, Kore smiles, then she ought to go pick flowers with Cyane. And yes—her eyes automatically squint—she can see Helios beaming on Apollo’s reins, so today must be a good day for what she yearns to do! She twirls around in her cloth, beautiful and like her mother’s.

Cyane, Cyane, Cyane, her lips easily sing a hum of her playmate's name. Her mother is engaged in a one-sided argument with her father, their lord above all. There is anger coursing through his palms, yellow and buzzing, something she has only heard of but never seen. Her mother looks empty, has seemed so in a while to all her other siblings, but that Demeter is all Kore has ever known. But when Hestia treats her to a cup of tea by the hearth and Poseidon brings her pearls, they always curl her wild hair behind her ear and whisper “Demeter used to look as brilliant as you.”

When Kore glides by, her father stops his argument and smiles at her, something low in his eyes and even more off-putting in his lips. Her mother carries her glassy eyes from the ground to her, bringing a smile onto her sun-kissed face, something that does not reach her eyes and instead creases the corners of them.

She does not say anything—her parents do not say anything either so she assumes she has missed nothing—and thinks about how Cyane is awaiting her. What flower would Cyane look beautiful in? 

The field is as it always is, winsome and new. Cyane is already there with a handful of flowers and Kore smiles gracefully as her playmate tucks a crown of helianthus into her hair.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

The ground splits open to engulf her field into dark black scars. A spring glows cyan and a crown of sunflowers float about on it, seemingly searching for a wearer. It remains empty.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

Kore ravages the small pomegranate she regretfully picked off an Underworldly tree. Only six seeds, but the juice of it spills down the seam of her lips and paints a picture of bloodshed. She swears she has seen Athena do both, bathe in the blood of her offering and when blood had dripped down her legs in a steady stream. 

Time is worse in the Underworld than what it is above the ground. It could have been mere seconds or a few years in all the time she had spent walking cold and feasting on the fruit. When she hears a wail as loud as a birthing that cracks the crust of the Underworld, Kore assumes it is—

“Your mother,” Hades murmurs. “Is noticeably not happy with me. But I, my dear, am incredibly happy with you.”

And that is all it takes for her uncle to ravage her the same degenerate way she ravaged the Underworld's pomegranates. Desperation and fury all in one, but whereas hers had an end, Hades seems to only take his fill one after another.

And suddenly, she realizes the fury that is present in Hades's face is the same her father had in his arms when belittling his child's mother. Suddenly, ludicrously, she understands why her mother’s eyes are as dead as they are and why her light had dimmed in place of her daughter.

Kore imagines her contorted face of pain is the same as her mother’s as their fates intertwine.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

When Hermes comes to fetch her, he finds her trembling and with her limbs curled around herself in fear. She does not reach for his hands when he offers, and Hades only points at the stain of pomegranate juice around her lips.

“Six months.” The king of the Underworld says. He has no remorse, he only has lust, just like the brother and father he once promised he would never become.

And that, despite the cries and anger of mother and daughter that nearly obliterated the human population and reversed the order of their two seasons, is final.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

The first leaf falls from a tree, bright and orange, and so the first month comes brutally. Kore drags her nails into her fields as she tries to cling to the world she wishes to die in. It is futile, but she brings the dirt she has always loved into the dark pits of Hades.

Demeter starts slowly with her grief. It starts with her head in her hands with no tears and then ends with a near famine for the human folk. She kills the clay-like people with some emotion, but not the strong ones that are reserved for her daughter. Hades is fortunately swallowed by his duty with the dead and so Kore cries alone in a castle that mimics her own but is in no way even close to it.

When the first six months draw to an end, Demeter waits near the cyan spring with fire on a stick. Six months of waiting and suffering for her Kore to come into her awaiting arms!

 

𓇢𓆸

 

Whoever comes out of the Underworld is not her Kore. Her Kore was charming and whimsical. She was melodious and inviting, her smile never lacked what Demeter's did—an emptiness, a prison.

“Kore…” she whispers, her fingers flexing to touch her daughter's cheeks. They feel cold. She is not meant to be cold, the daughter of spring. “Is that you?”

Something terrible breaks in her eyes. “Persephone.” She mumbles. “The harvester of death.”

Chapter 2: nasci

Summary:

nasci: to be born

she has become malicious and in desire to hurt others in a fraction of what she went through. She desires a reason, an explanation why it was her, why this much pain.

Notes:

This is for my AWESOME and insightful friend: AchillesComeHome, or Kat. They've been so incredible throughout the time I've known her and I couldn't be prouder to get to know her and her work. Watching their work come to life (sometimes with my inputs!) and seeing how supportive they are to me is an experience like none other. I sincerely hope you all find a companion like Kat at least once in your lives.

To Kat:ily and every second of talking. Such a creative and kind mind such as yours is something unique and I'm so glad I got to know you.

happy birthday, i hope the day treats you well!!! <3

The name Kore shed off as quickly as the illusion of her girlhood, as frail as her mother’s worried eyes and as frail her fingers felt when she held the golden diadem Hades presented to her on their wedding night. It had fallen off her head as Hades spread apart her legs and greedily devoured the divinity found there. He had not done so after the initial raping—had called it consummating their marriage. But what was holy about their love?

 

𓇢𓆸

 

Was there holiness in the way her mouth screamed? Was there holiness in the way she stepped uneasily after the fact? Was there holiness in the way her blood splattered on his gaunt face?

 

𓇢𓆸

 

“And yet I predict Amor to be here nevertheless, and if the rumor of the ancient snatching has not lied,” the lyre-playing Orpheus sings. Get out of my sight, Persephone wants to lash out. Your measly mortal stories have lied to you. Eros is not here, will never be in this miserable kingdom. “Then Eros also joined you all.” 

Perhaps Kore would have been kinder, warmer, more entertained by this idea of love. But she is no fool and she is no longer good Kore. Persephone knows not of love, and it is exactly what this lyre-plucker describes it as. She watches Hades’ lips curve into a shallow smile after Orpheus finishes his song and after the Furies themselves wept with tears. She is powerless of course, her opinion will have no sway in this plea. 

There is a little pang in her, a desperate what if on its hands and knees clawing at her mind. What if their love is different? What if this lyre-player is actually hungry for their release? Can he rewrite the wound of love?

But Persephone knows. It is futile, love is something that she wants to run from, something she wants to be kept hidden from. This Orpheus is their troubled hero—despite his reasoning not being kleos, but love. It is a flimsy excuse at best, Persephone can see through it.

Why, Persephone wants to ask with hatred, why then, have you only mentioned your beloved's name once in the entirety of your speech and song? 

It strikes her then, she has become malicious and in desire to hurt others in a fraction of what she went through. She desires a reason, an explanation why it was her, why this much pain. It cannot just have been her, wounded so tightly to the point of despair and breathlessness.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

There is no love in possession. Zeus had loved her mother and Hades loves her and Orpheus will have loved Eurydice in the way mortals see a beautiful flower and tear it out from its neck. These dominant men do not love them; they love the idea of owning them, destroying them, seizing away their beauty and purity.

Hades summons the ghostly Eurydice amongst the recent souls. Persephone watches as she stumbles with the bloody bite on her ankle. Persephone watches how Orpheus stands: solid, unflinching, passive.

It is then that Persephone shares the same grief and anger of Eurydice, then that she knows she has seen through the disguise of Orpheus in silence. Cruelty is written in their ichor as much as divinity is, though she suspects grief is their version of male lust. 

 

𓇢𓆸

 

Persephone glides through the emptiness of the Underworld with the light of torches trembling towards her—heavy, wary, quiet. She has to stop after a short while, a short burst of grief has seemingly found purchase inside her heart after the smell of wet soil surrounds her. She digs her nails into the clay walls and dreams of fields, sunlight thick enough to melt away in, and a girl’s laughter in between rows of flowers. 

That girl is buried here, she realizes. That girl died here, maybe under her feet, maybe in her ribs. 

The ghosts bow respectfully as she passes, but she feels no power, no reverence, only hunger. It clamors in her veins, in her fingers as she flexes them. They worship her as if she is holy, as if she is merciful. 

They do not know holiness is a wound that pools her blood around her feet. They do not know that she will ache and kick.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

A woman comes soon. She cradles the cut on her throat with care and an utmost sanctity as her feet make quiet sounds along the mud. Persephone meets her at the gate, holds her in her arms and feels how the woman, so strong and defiant a moment before, trembles in her hold.

“I took my own life with my mother’s blade instead of being taken by a husband,” she confesses. “Please, my lady—will I be punished?”

She looks into Persephone’s eyes, as if salvation is found in her long-dead eyes. The goddess has no salvation to offer, but she has no damnation either. Her next words are soft, almost lovingly tender. “No. Not anymore.”

The woman’s trembles vibrate her own heart as she begins weeping. Persephone walks her past the ferryman, past the judges, past the river, past everything man had built for order. 

It does not burn.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

Alone in her chambers, she stares at the golden diadem, grey with ash. It is cold to the touch and she rubs the gold with her finger until her reflection stares back at her—it makes her recoil slightly, but she still grasps the diadem until its sharp edges imprint onto her palm. It is a stranger’s face that returns back to her, old and distant, made from shadows and memories.

How still does she have to be to survive its gleam?

Somewhere in the midst of fog and darkness, Hades laughs. It is unlike anything she has ever heard: icy, unforgiving.

Persephone hurls the diadem onto the ground, quick and loud, anything to drown out the echoing sound of his laughter. It does not bend or scratch but it returns the eerie silence.

A split-open pomegranate tempts her, but Kore has long since died and Persephone has since learned. The seeds glint like small drops of blood or like small rubies and like his eyes.

She crushes a seed between her fingernails and wipes the color onto her lips.

Aphrodite does the same thing, color her lips and cheeks with the rare blood offerings that Areia receives. That goddess is someone Persephone fears and desires to be. Aphrodite Areia smiles with all her sharp teeth behind her bloody mouth in war and she is still so beautiful and free.

This kingdom, she seethes, will bear her mark, how ugly it is.

 

𓇢𓆸

 

The world shakes on some new beginning, a second thaw but still as unfamiliar and worthy of mourning as the first. Persephone kneels next to the cyan spring that trembles between the two worlds and listens to her mother’s warm hum, a lullaby made of longing and guilt. It invades her senses like roots to rain.

She is no longer Kore, the girl her mother used to twirl around. But the first time Demeter had held Persephone, she had cupped the young woman’s cheek with the same adoration she had at her birth. 

A new spell begins to take form in her chest as the water hisses around her fingers. It thrums with the grief of the lost women that ended up as destiny. Man will learn her name anew.

Somewhere, the first green shoot hesitates before it blooms through the frost.

Notes:

Yes, shockingly enough, I'm also not a fan of Orpheus/Eurydice. If anybody wants to debate my take on them, go ahead. I've been defending my claim since high school with Ovid’s Latin. Honestly, I didn't write this to expect people to suddenly become haters of Orpheus/Eurydice (though maybe I did want haters of Hades/Persephone....lol.) You're free to wish whatever you want!!

tldr: you don't have to agree with my portrayals of orpheus/eurydice!!