Rose and Asphodel

Dear Hades

Writing a letter to the Lord of the Dead was still impossible, even after all these years. Persephone had perfected the opening, a simple Dear Hades, but she could never get the next line right. It had been...what, a decade since they had begun their correspondence? A decade was nothing to the gods. Demeter could step from one to the next without breaking a sweat; Hades was even older.

But Persephone had lived for centuries, too. Time slipped from her shoulders like water. She wore it like a cloak now, thick with the languages and the instruments she had mastered, plucking at them day by day until her voice could mimic even the most complicated syllable and her hands could play even the most elusive note.

So why in Zeus' name couldn't she write a gods-damned letter?

She capped her pen and set the paper aside in favor of rereading the letter from Hades that had arrived earlier that morning. It was, as always, confusing.

Hades wrote as though his immortal life depended on the precise record of his perpetually overworked train of thoughts, a litany of life's mundanities. Persephone read every letter as soon as it reached her.

Given that he was someone she'd only spoken to once, ten years before, Hades knew Persephone better than anyone.

She could almost hear him speaking when she read his letters. She remembered his voice perfectly; it was a low, warm tone that lent itself to the depths of melancholy and mourning.

Rose,

I took your advice about the garden, and I regret to inform you that everything has now died. I don't know what went wrong this time, although I suspect it might have something to do with the advice to sing to the flowers. That may work for you, but my voice must scare them away from the notion of growing.

All has been fine here. There is little time for anything except work, as usual, and the advents of the modern world have not yet reached the Land of the Dead, despite your best efforts. I lost the letter where you explained how to use the "iPod shuffle" you sent me (was that its name? I'm sorry, it's been forever since I even saw the thing).

One day we'll digitize the system, but for now, my study is chock-full of paper. Cerberus is curled up on the couch, across the most important portions of my work. He's snoring too loudly for me to focus. One day, perhaps, he will have the privilege of meeting you.

I don't suppose you'll be allowed out of the Haven for this summer's Solstice celebrations next week? I know I ask every year, but I thought I might ask again.

Not that your letters are insufficient. I am endlessly grateful for your letters.

Judging by your last letter, I don't expect to see you at the festival, but know that you will be missed. Hermes has spent the last few years trying to catch glimpses of your letters over my shoulder. Sometimes I ask Tantalus for advice with the wording, but he's intolerable.

Another reason for us to speak, when it's possible. I hope I'm more charming face-to-face, but that'll be up to you to decide.

I'm thinking of getting a typewriter, although Hermes will charge me extra to carry it down here. Writing these letters would be much faster if it weren't in ink, so I could write more of what I mean to say. It takes so much time to pen a single line; I always set aside what I think will be enough time, but even as I write,Thanatosis already informing me of my next appointment.

My regards to you, and to your mother. Please advise me on the state of my garden—it grows more and more pitiful by the day. I can't wait to see the summer blooms when I'm in the mortal world for the festival.