by Lianyu Tan
Even the gods feared her realm and the secrets within it.
“You might as well come down,” Hades said.
Persephone’s face flushed. She longed for the ground to swallow her whole, for the earth to claim her as her own and hide her shame, but her feet found nothing but solid stone as she trudged down the flight of steps leading to the courtyard.
“Well?” Hades asked. “What do you have to say for yourself, Kore?”
She was tall, pale as though she’d never seen the sun. Her aquiline nose looked carved from marble. It had been a long time—decades, perhaps—since they’d last met.
Persephone lowered herself to one knee and gazed at the ground. “Forgive me, Queen Hades. It was wrong of me to eavesdrop.”
“And yet you did,” Hades said. “Did Demeter teach you no manners?”
Persephone risked a glance. Hades’ face was unreadable, still as a statue. “Of course she did. The fault is mine alone.”
Hades considered her in silence. After a moment, she made a sharp gesture with her hand. “Let me warn you now: if you wish to forgo conventions, you had best avoid getting caught.”
Persephone rose to her feet, stilling the impulse to brush the dust from her chiton. “You won’t tell her, will you?”
“That remains to be seen.” Hades jerked her head toward the next courtyard. “Walk with me.”
She couldn’t disobey a direct order, no matter what Demeter might’ve said. Persephone hurried to match Hades’ long strides. “Have you been well?” she asked. “I hear you’ve not been seen for some time.”
“Well enough. And you, Kore. Are you keeping safe?” Hades asked.
Persephone blushed, wondering what Hades thought she had to fear. “Yes, thank you.”
Hades led them up several flights of steps to a wide balcony at the back of the palace, overlooking the ocean. There was only one path down from the balcony, the walkway coiling in clear view below them. Someone ascending would be seen long before they reached the top. The pathways were heavily planted, overgrown with ivy that sprawled across the railing and steps. Hades leaned over the balustrade and closed her eyes, the breeze tousling her hair and billowing out her skirts.
The sun glittered over the ocean’s waves. A few gulls danced close to the shoreline, tiny specks of white swooping down over the water to fetch their prey.
It was pretty enough, but that alone did not explain Hades’ pensive expression. The silence stretched on as Hades studiously ignored her, seemingly forgetting Persephone’s existence for all the mind she paid her. Persephone could not leave without a clear dismissal, and so she waited, caught in a formless limbo where she began to doubt her own memory of whether, in fact, Hades had requested her presence at all.
The silence grew overlong. Perhaps Persephone’s frustration at being ignored gave her courage, for she could not blame her next words on the ambrosia. “May I... may I ask you a question?” she asked, stumbling a little over her words.
Hades turned her head, as if seeing her for the first time. “Out with it.”
“Do plants grow in the underworld?”
Hades stared at her as though she were addle-brained. “Yes. Is that all?”
Persephone blushed. “I meant—are they growing then, truly? Or is it simply their souls taking on a different form? I mean, do plants have souls? I’ve always thought that trees would, of course, but as for annuals—”
Hades cut her off. “I would rather not discuss matters associated with my function.”
“But when Zeus—” Persephone bit her lip, horrified at her mistake. Of course Zeus could ask Hades whatever questions he deemed fit; she would not dare compare herself with her father in the same breath. Except she’d done just that.
“This is why we do not eavesdrop on our elders,” Hades said, her eyes slitted.
An apology came quickly to Persephone’s lips, but words alone seemed inadequate. She unconsciously took a step back, her hand brushing the ivy-covered guardrail. The plant grew a new tendril, which slithered across her arm, as if trying to comfort her.
Hades’ gaze dropped to the ivy. She reached out and touched its leaves, then crossed the distance between them. Persephone froze in place as the ivy wound up her bare arm and across her back, followed closely by Hades’ fingertips grazing her skin.
Hades’ hand lingered on her shoulder, a warm and heavy weight. Persephone’s breath caught in her throat.
“Fascinating,” Hades said.
She was no longer looking at the plant. Instead, her gaze focused on Persephone, her pupils large despite the warm afternoon light.
They were close enough that Persephone could have kissed her, had she the mind to. Not that she wanted to.
Hades’ hand trailed across her collarbone. She placed her fingers around Persephone’s neck, her thumb brushing over the hollow of the girl’s throat. Her perfume was floral and green—gardenia? No. Asphodel. Persephone’s pulse beat a mad staccato rhythm as she stood motionless, the stillness of prey caught in the hunter’s sight as she searched for what to do, to say, to make Hades unhand her.
“Persephone! I’ve been looking all over for you!”
Demeter’s voice. Hades didn’t release her, not immediately. Her mouth curved into a slight smile, and for a moment, her fingers tightened around Persephone’s neck, squeezing the breath from her. The ivy coiled around Hades’ wrist, temporarily binding them.
Demeter’s footsteps. Hades released her and took a step back, tearing the ivy from her wrist. Persephone gasped and clutched at her throat, her other hand clinging to the railing as the greenery wound its way toward her.
Demeter’s sandals slapped against the stone steps as she climbed the last few stairs up to the balcony, the hem of her chiton held up in one hand as not to trail in the dirt. Had she seen… what must she think? Perhaps the distance had been too great. Persephone could only hope.
She did not know what to think herself. She almost wished she’d the courage to ask Aphrodite whether she believed—but no. Persephone couldn’t ask anyone for help in deciphering Hades’ smile. Had she simply meant to frighten her? She’d succeeded.
“My dear Hades!” Demeter flitted over to her, placing one hand upon the goddess’s cheek. “How pale you are! How have you been keeping? You look so severe, you might as well have dressed for a funeral!”
“I would prefer a funeral,” Hades said, moving aside from Demeter’s touch. “Wouldn’t you?”
Demeter tittered. “I’d forgotten how droll you can be. Will we be seeing more of you this year?”
“I think not.”
“Why ever not?” Demeter pouted.
Hades glanced skyward, toward the ocean. “The same reasons.”
Demeter simpered. “Why, that’s nonsense, of course. I don’t see how you bear it, being trapped in that awful place, year in, year out! Could you imagine it?” she asked, directing this last question to Persephone.
“No,” Persephone said as she gently extricated herself from the ivy, supplying what she thought was the desired answer.
Demeter wrapped her arms around herself and shivered theatrically. “Simply dreadful!”
Hades said nothing. She briefly met Persephone’s gaze. Was she amused? Annoyed? Persephone couldn’t read her well enough to tell.
Demeter sighed. “We each have our burdens to bear.” She took Persephone’s arm, her mirror-bright smile wide enough to cut her face in two. “Speaking of which, I must get this one home.”
“Of course.” Hades inclined her head. “It was good to see you again, Demeter. Persephone,” she said, annunciating the syllables in her name with care.
Her name shouldn’t have sounded indecent coming from Hades’ lips, but all the same, Persephone shivered. She mumbled her farewells as she stared at her feet.
Demeter gave a little tug on her arm, and then they were away.
“Must we go so soon?” Persephone asked once they had made their way downstairs.
“Th
is is not ‘soon,’” Demeter said. “It is almost dark. Let’s get you to bed.”
Persephone glanced up at the sky. The sun was not quite set, and there was still plenty of light. “We must find Father,” she said. That would take some searching, surely. “To make our goodbyes.”
“I’ve already said our farewells to Zeus,” Demeter said.
Persephone blinked. “I would’ve liked to see him again.”
Demeter did not slow her pace as they headed down the corridors of Zeus’s palace, weaving around groups of inebriated party-goers. “What was that? Speak up, child.”
Persephone bit her lip. “It was nothing.”
They drew near to Zeus’s private wing, where he and his immediate family lived. Persephone glanced up to see Aphrodite descending the staircase, re-pinning a fibula to secure one shoulder of her chiton. It did not match the brooch on her right shoulder. In fact, Persephone could’ve sworn she’d seen something of that design adorning Hera’s clothing.
Aphrodite winked at her.
Demeter’s grip tightened on Persephone’s arm, and once they were a safe distance away, she sneered. “Strumpet.”
“It is only her function, Mother,” Persephone said, made bold by the hum of conversation around them, the laughter pealing through the evening air.
Demeter didn’t deign to respond. Outside, a servant waited for them with horses and a chariot. Persephone would rather have walked, barefoot, to feel the hum of the earth beneath her toes. She did not bother suggesting such a thing to her mother. Walking would have looked plebian.
Demeter waited until they were well out of the shadow of Zeus’s palace before she spoke again. “What did she want from you?”
“Who?” Persephone asked to buy herself time.
Her mother gave her a sharp look.
“Hades and I spoke of nothing of consequence,” Persephone said. “Plants,” she added. She resisted the impulse to rub at her throat.
“Don’t harass her with your inane prattle in the future,” Demeter said. “Don’t you know she hasn’t been seen above ground for at least seventy summers? She must have much more pressing things to do. Whatever would a silly little girl like you have to say to the Queen of the Underworld?”
Persephone bit her tongue. She hadn’t asked to be caught with Hades; in fact, she’d had no intention—none!—of conversing with her at all, if one could even call their interaction a conversation. She’d squandered the day, and now Gaia only knew when she’d next be able to speak with Athena or Artemis.
“And what of our agreement?” Demeter asked.
“I kept my head. I hardly had a drop,” Persephone said.
Demeter sniffed. “And the other?”
“No promises.” They had left so early, what did Demeter suppose she had done with the scant time available?
“Even a kind smile is an invitation, to some,” Demeter said. “And what happened to your himation?”
Persephone rubbed her bare shoulder, shivering as she remembered Aphrodite’s knowing smile. “I—danced a little. I must have dropped it. I’m sorry.” She had also left behind her gift from Hephaestus. She hesitated, opening her mouth, but stopped herself before she could commit the sin of asking to turn around to fetch it.
Demeter rolled her eyes skyward but remained silent the rest of the chariot ride home. Once their driver had brought them to the back of the house and departed, she turned to Persephone. “You’ll not try to bother her again, will you, dear?”
“Hades?” Persephone asked.
Demeter twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “It’s just I would so hate for her to take offense at your prattling. She can be vindictive, you know.”
The warning was unnecessary. Persephone touched her fingertips to her neck, echoes of their conversation repeating over and over in her mind. Did Demeter teach you no manners? “I won’t bother her,” she said. It was an easy promise to make.
Demeter smiled and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Come, the hour is late.”
Persephone obediently followed her mother up the steps to the house. Though she could not quite forget her brief audience with the Queen of the Underworld, they spoke no more of Hades that evening, nor any evening thereafter.
2
None Are Worthy
Seasons passed, and Persephone’s chance meeting with Hades became a distant memory. She did not think of her overly much except in spring, when all her flowers were in bloom, including the star-shaped white asphodel. There was something imperfect about their scent, mismatching what she remembered wafting from the heat of Hades’ skin—they were too warm, too bright, too… immaculate.
She spent a season watching a nest of ospreys learning to fly, the chicks molting from ugly gray lumps to trim little juveniles, finally growing up to leave the nest and find territories of their own.
Spring brought rain and warm breezes before giving way to hot, dry summer. Once the heat had passed, the trees grew golden, their leaves turning brittle in the flush of autumn. The weather changed, and spring came anew, tiny shoots bursting through the earth as if summoned by the sun.
Demeter was always busy, busy, busy. There were new kings to teach, new fields to plant. Humanity seemed destined to spread like an entangling weed, even as the machinations of Athena and Ares sent generation after generation of mortal sons to Hades’ realm.
The house was never empty—there were always acolytes and attendants about, all to serve Demeter, of course, but few of the other gods deigned to make an appearance.
So, it was with some surprise that Persephone found Hephaestus lurking at the front of the house one summer, apparently summoning the courage to knock upon their door.
Persephone shifted her flower basket to her other arm and brushed back a lock of hair from her face. “Hephaestus! What brings you here?”
He smiled nervously at her, his face glazed with a sheen of sweat. “You, dear Persephone.” He shifted from one leg to the other, the metal contraption that encircled his damaged leg squeaking slightly.
“Why don’t you come inside and share some wine with us?” Persephone asked.
Hephaestus coughed. “Well, actually, before that—I would rather speak plainly with you, if I may.”
“Of course.” Persephone smiled at him in an attempt to put him at ease, but it only seemed to make him more nervous. “I still remember the mechanical bird you gave me. It was the most charming thing I’d ever seen,” she said.
“Ah.” Hephaestus seemed to draw courage from her words. “I’m glad. It was over a hundred summers ago, you know.”
“Really?” Persephone’s eyes widened. Had it been that long since she had danced at Zeus’s palace? “I’m sure your skills have only grown since that time.”
“And I would fashion many more delights for you, each one more wondrous than the last, if you were to permit me to—to—”
Persephone waited, biting her tongue to keep herself from interrupting.
“—if you would permit me to court you,” Hephaestus said, almost sagging with relief to have the words out.
Persephone blinked. “Oh!” She flushed and glanced away. She could not say that she felt strongly about it one way or the other—and it was not that she minded his limp, nor the misshapen slope of his face. She had simply never thought of him in that way. Then again, he seemed kind enough and was clever with his hands.
A vision of their future flashed before her. He would not despise her, as Hera despised Zeus, and he would be mindful of his conquests, pursuing them quietly without compromising Persephone’s reputation, unlike the other gods. Under his wing, she would be free from her mother’s house, at last.
She could do worse. “I—I would be honored,” she said and tried to smile. She offered her hand. “Let’s go inside and tell Mother.”
Hephaestus gingerly entwined his fingers with hers and allowed himself to be led inside.
Persephone found him a seat and was pouring them drinks when Demeter walked
into the room.
“My dear boy,” Demeter said. “What brings you here today?”
Persephone set down the wine jug and offered a cup to Demeter. “Hephaestus has asked to court me, and I’ve accepted,” she said. “We humbly request your blessing.”
Demeter glanced between the two of them, and then she began to laugh.
Persephone froze in mortification. Her outstretched hand trembled, and she set down the cup, wine sloshing over the sides.
“Please forgive me,” Demeter said, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye. “I mean you no ill will, Hephaestus. It’s simply that my Persephone is yet a child and lacks the maturity to be anyone’s potential bride.”
“I’m no child, Mother,” Persephone said. She gestured toward Hephaestus. “He said it’s been over a century since I was last seen at Zeus’s palace.”
Demeter airily waved her hand in the air. “Another five centuries, perhaps, and we could talk.”
Hephaestus rose to his feet. “It seems clear that Persephone believes she is ready for the trappings of adulthood, Demeter.” He glanced at Persephone.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.” She took Hephaestus’s hand, squeezing his fingers. “And this is what I desire.”
Demeter’s eyes grew cold. “You can’t possibly know what you want. An eternity with him? Really?”
“It’s a courtship, not a contract, Mother!”
“Ladies, please—”
“Enough!” Demeter shrieked. She snatched up the wine jug and threw it at Hephaestus. He ducked, and the pottery shattered behind him, but he could not avoid the wine splashing his face and clothes.
“Mother!” Persephone exclaimed. She searched Hephaestus’s face for signs of injury, but the only wound seemed to be to his pride.
Hephaestus wiped a hand across his eyes. “Father said you would listen to reason, but I see now you are lost in your delusions.”
“Get out of my house,” Demeter said, holding a plate in a threatening manner.
