Cradling sunlight

Hades could not often leave the underworld: the souls of the dead demanded judgment, monsters thirsted for blood, his underlings wove intrigues behind his back, and he had to withstand it all, presenting himself to everyone as unshakable, impassive, an absolute authority. He was called ruthless — and he upheld that reputation. But everything changed when Hades did manage to tear himself away from the dark whirlwind of his duties. Clad in his helm of invisibility, unnoticed by the other gods, he would set foot on the isle of Aeaea. Here lived the daughter of Helios, the sun-faced Circe, a notorious despiser of men. Hades first made her acquaintance when, instead of human souls, a group of porcine ones had arrived in his realm, causing chaos in the records and a persistent, dull ache in his temple. At that moment, the Lord of the Dead had very much wanted to kill the insolent goddess who dared disrupt his long-perfected system. But an even stronger desire gripped him: to understand just how she had managed it. Before Hades stood Circe, clad in a simple home-worn chiton, unprepared for the god’s sudden visit — slender, tense, and straight as a bowstring. In her amber eyes smoldered wary fear, and behind the fear — a carefully hidden defiance: she was within her rights, and none could dispute it. Her chestnut hair, drawn into a severe knot, blazed in the sun like molten gold, and her speech, melodious and calm, flowed like sweet honey, soothing the last remnants of his anger. Not that Hades was really angry, in truth. Rather, he was perplexed. And then he laughed at the original method she had devised to rid herself of the unwelcome: a potion that turned men into swine! She had conceived it, crafted the recipe — one so potent it had deceived the very system of the underworld. Hades expressed his admiration, and Circe flushed in flustered surprise. Her sincere smile lit up her face, and the air seemed to grow warmer — so that Hades, forever chilled in the realm of the dead, felt deeply content and at ease. So much so that he asked to see her island. Circe spoke of her experiments, showed him monsters whose forms rivaled those of the underworld, yet were gentle and tame. Enormous, half-human-height, shaggy spiders took raw meat from her palm; giant cats, spitting poison, purred, begging for stroking or treats, and nearly bowled even him over — a god of no small stature — when they rubbed against his legs. Slender and seemingly fragile despite her height, Circe would step back each time to keep her balance, yet never restrained her beloved creatures, and from her emanated waves of sunlit warmth, in whose rays Hades himself thawed. “You are so…” He caught her in an embrace, buried his nose in her crown, breathed in the scent of sun-warmed grass and hearth smoke, and fell silent, leaving the sentence unfinished. “Hot?” Circe supplied with doomed bitterness. “Sunlit. And soft,” Hades kissed her lightly, carefully, as if afraid to startle her, though what he wanted most was to summon his chariot and carry off this accidentally found treasure for himself, so that no one else would dare even look at her — much less touch her. But he understood: she would not forgive him, would not accept it, would wither underground — too stubborn, too broken by life to submit and forget her past, her island, her nymph wards and affectionate monsters. “May I visit you sometimes?” “Of course, as it pleases you,” — not that one could refuse one of the mightiest gods, but Hades hoped her voice did not sound as cold as mere formality. He came — and Circe warmed with each visit. Laughing, she told of the mischief of her adopted daughters, of how the cats had chewed her sandals, of a thousand little things from the life of the island — a life filled with scents, sounds, color — all that was lacking in Hades’ gray and silent world. He admired her flushed cheeks, her slender fingers often stained with grass or flour, her radiant eyes, her angular, sharp, yet feminine form — and longed to press his lips to her coral mouth, to drink from them either honey or deadly poison. Anything Circe might choose to bestow upon him. And she cooked their dinners, allowed his embraces — yet deep in her eyes lingered sorrow. Circe did not like to recall the past, but it was written in her nervous gestures, in her attempts to pull away, in her contempt for men — and in how slowly, timidly her trust blossomed. How slowly she began to return his embraces, how slowly she believed that Hades needed warmth, not merely a body. “You are my sun,” Hades said one day. Circe cast a swift glance upward, toward her father’s chariot. “No, not him. You,” Hades laughed. “You do not shine for everyone. And I wish it to remain so.” “And what of the trouble with the souls of the swine?” “I will manage,” Hades promised, took her warm palm in his hand, and brought it to his cool lips. “Will you become my wife, Circe?” “Wife?” Her eyes widened in surprise. Of course, the ruling gods took mistresses, not wives — and Hades was the eternal bachelor. But perhaps the sun could melt even subterranean ice? “Wife,” he nodded firmly. “My only, beloved, and desired one. I cannot take you below — you would wither there. But I will come as often as I can, and give you all the warmth that remains within me.” “You know, I would never forgive myself if I took the last of your warmth from you,” her clear, ringing laughter seemed more beautiful than any music. “Better give me your cold, and I shall give you my warmth,” Circe clasped Hades’ hand. And from that day, he never felt the cold again.