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acequeenking · 4 years

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Hadestober #4

4) A Flower in a Town of Steel and Stone - Eurydice eeks out a living in hell. Post-canon. (Eurydice & Persephone, T for some mild horror about Hadestown)

Eurydice can’t remember the sound of her own voice.

Her fellow workers don't talk so much. Can't, really; she keeps trying to re-learn how herself, but the underworld sews one's mouth shut, makes ones mind foggy. Hard for her to even remember to try as time goes on; hard to remember who she is. Still, she keeps trying to talk to them, when she remembers to do so: keeps thinking maybe she'll be able to talk to them, to tell her story, find out theirs.

Longest she''s ever worked a job without knowing anybody's name, except of course her boss, who most studiously ignores her presence. Sometimes, she remembers why, and she ignores him too. Other times, she just finds his deliberate lack of attention confusing.

But regardless of where his attentions may fall: it always feels like her mouth is full of cotton. Can't ask questions, can't so much as echo her own thoughts because the only thing she hears is his: the clang of the iron, the screaming music of the machinery. It even leaks into her pattern of even thinking, sometimes: his way of thinking. Sometimes she will think a thought and it will not occur to her for ages that the thought is more likely her bosses’ than her own: profits, shares, production quotas. Sometimes, even the pattern in her thoughts is his: the long, slow way of thinking accustomed to someone who has literal centuries to finish their thoughts.

Those days frighten her most of all.

But there's no escape from Hadestown down here. Sometimes, she remembers a hope of escape once, a rescuer who tried; sometimes, she isn't sure if he had come, or if it had merely been a dream. Either way she thinks of it often; maybe too often. Been days that have past when the only thing Eurydice can think of between the strike of the hammer and the press of the nail is the face of a man who cared, once; who made a mistake, once. Who turned too early. Who has been gone too long.

Time passes too quick down here; it's funny, she thinks, when she is sure that it is she who is thinking-- Eurydice, she mouths her name to herself, Eury-dice, don't forget. She always assumed death would be slow, but it's fast, and she loses count of the years without even trying. All days are the same down here; the only thing that marks the changing of the seasons is the absence of presence of Persephone herself.

And Eurydice doesn’t get close enough to really see our lady very much.

So without the power to speak, well, she keeps herself busy looking. First it was escape attempts; then it was for a rescuer, who never returned even though she always hoped he would. Always, she tries to keep her memories of herself, of who she is; her own private rebellion. Eurydice keeps her head low, keeps an eye out for anything that might help her, tries to keep her memories -- no matter how painful they might be.

They still leave her regardless, but she keeps trying to hold on tight to anything she can find that reminds her of the world above.

Was this tendency that has led her to finally find Persephone’s speakeasy. She's found a trail of dried flowers, ones that had been there quite some time; followed it down and down and down deeper still, til the bright lights of Hadestown had faded down to a dull glow, til one could hear the spirits being pulled long before one walked in the door.

She first found it - she doesn't know how long ago. Couple years, at least. Eurydice's belly had tightened when she saw it, and then she had turned away.

Hadn't had the courage to come in, then; the lady and herself, well, things had never gotten quite been resolved there, at least, she thinks they weren’t; as a shade she had less capacity to remember much that had occurred after her final climb up that long, curving staircase. Taken her a few seasons more to gather herself -- Eury-dice, you are Eury-dice, remember, remember, don't forget -- and get up the bravery to open that door. Finally, that in mind, she opens the door at long last.

Our lady is there, looking the same as she had the last time Eurydice had seen her up close. The lady looks at Eurydice, and Eurydice looks at the lady: her black dress is not even a bit different. "Songbird," the lady gasps; Eurydice, herself, can't say anything, being dead. But she doesn't need to, for the lady comes out from her bar -- some of the workers like her look at her, perhaps wondering why Eurydice provokes such a reaction, Eurydice doesn't pay much attention -- because then the Lady's hands are on her. Cold. You wouldn't think a goddess' hands could be so cold, but they are.

"Songbird," she says, and her voice is soft, clarion-clear and pleasant. "Songbird, songbird. Thought he flew you down to the deep south. Down the mines." Eurydice shakes her heat mutely, and such is difficult enough, and she sees in the lady's eyes just pity, no anger at all.

"Come here," she says. "Come here, come here. Let me get you something to drink." She follows, mutely, behind the lady, pulls up one of the empty stools at her bar. Not many free seats. Eurydice wonders how long it can escape his notice -- but it's so nice not to hear his thoughts, not to be focused on the scream of the metal, the bang of the hammer.

Persephone fills a cup with something clear, odorless. She's got seven taps, and all of them look the same. Persephone puts the drink in front of her. "Drink it," she says; for half a second, Eurydice hesitates, remembering that maybe there's a reason she ought to be afraid of such kindness, but the thought fades quickly and she takes a sip. It's cold and tasteless -- water. But water from a spring so sweet that she can almost see it, water so clean it briefly makes her remember the feeling of water sliding through her toes on a hot summer day. A tear slips down her cheek and Eurydice slaps at it. Not much room for mercy down here.

"'s all right," the lady says. "You can let it out. This here's a safe space for those kinds of things." She pours another drink of water, places it in front of her.

"Thank you," she says, then pauses, mouth open in shock. Her voice. Her voice.

Persephone -- our lady -- doesn't look surprised. She smiles, but there's a sadness to it. "Enjoy it while it lasts, songbird," she says, and raises her cup. Eurydice does the same, and drinks deep, and, for a brief moment, remembers the world the way it was.

#Hadestober #Hadestown #Eurydice #Persephone #Hadestown fanfiction #Persephone (Hadestown)#Eurydice (Hadestown)#Oops a little late on this one #Will try to make up the difference later #Or just finish nov 2

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