Persephone swallowed, hard. Tears? No, no! Why emotions? Why tears?
Pale Persephone looked grimly at the man who'd dared the amazing deed of descending into the Underworld, raising a brow. Those who'd had an audience with Hades and his Queen in the unlovely realm had found that judgments did not deviate from the established precedents. Rules were in place for a reason, and things functioned as they did in a manner that was objective, logical, balanced, and just. Some begged and pleaded and asked for mercy... but rules were rules. The begging and pleading and mercy-asking turned to crying at times, to kneeling before the couple and fixing Persephone with a look -- a look to her for mercy -- aiming to tug at the fabric of her long himation, and all she would ever do was look at them -- just a look was all it took, and perhaps a gesture of her hand. There was never an "I'm sorry" -- apologies were not warranted for such things, and she was never one to utter them. She was not the sympathetic sort, not the feeling kind or sentimentalist. Not her. She would shrink away from the emotions, keep her wits about her and respond with logic to the emotional pleas. But she was fair, and she was just, and she was respected, no matter how the tears fell. It was not that she was not compassionate -- for she was -- but it was what needed to be done, and it was why she was so perfectly suited for what the Apportioners three had seen fit to weave into the thread of her existence.
"I know, mother," she said, quietly, exhaling, letting out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. She tried to maintain a level-head, bit back any sort of remarks that threatened to come forth. She restrained herself to a simple: "he is my husband -- but if you'd like," another sigh escaped her and she nodded.