by Lianyu Tan
It had been some time since she’d picked a lock. Centuries, perhaps. Fortunately, human development in this area had not progressed significantly since the last time she’d tried. That, or Demeter simply had not bothered to secure her valuables more carefully.
There was one final click as the lock disengaged. Hades moved the bar, sliding it free and flinging the door open. Her heart stopped cold. She’d tarried too long.
Persephone lay on the floor like a corpse, her pallor ghastly in the light of the orange flame flickering from the back of the cellar. Her hair fell loose around her head in an arc, her eyes closed as though in slumber, her long lashes dusted with soot. The folds of her chiton clung to her like clouds veiling the perfection of the night sky.
She looked so beautiful.
Ichor was smeared across her knuckles, and a line of bruises encircled her throat, but a second glance confirmed those injuries were superficial. Far more concerning was her lack of consciousness.
Hades crouched down and scooped Persephone into her arms, bringing her out into the fresh air. She carried her past the dirt ring encircling the building and laid her down on a patch of dry and yellow grass. The moonlight cast shadows upon Hades’ face as she kneeled, Persephone’s body sprawled as though lifeless upon the ground before her; the keeper of the dead cradling the herald of life. An image for the Muses.
Perhaps this was her punishment for finally wanting something, for needing something for herself alone; not because it bettered her realm or her people, but because she desired it. Desired her.
She brushed the hair from Persephone’s face to observe her breath, her fingers alighting on Persephone’s wrist to feel her pulse. She was not breathing and lay still, so still, as if the Moirai were mocking Hades for her vices.
Hades would know if she were dead—even now, with her hands trembling and a ringing buzz in her head so loud that it could not possibly be due to the necklace’s charm—but even the gods needed air.
She would have to breathe for them both.
Hades sealed off Persephone’s nose with her thumb and forefinger and pressed her lips to Persephone’s, exhaling into her mouth. She repeated this three more times, then paused to see whether it had done any good.
Nothing yet.
Hades pressed her palms against the grass, their dried-out husks snapping as her fingers dug into the dirt. “Gaia, I beseech you, return your child to the waking world. Keep her from the unending gray. It is not yet her hour.”
There was no time to wait and see if her prayer had been heard. Hades wiped off her hands on her chiton and leaned over Persephone once more, sharing her breath. Persephone’s lips were turning blue. Hades silently projected her prayers, promising anything of worth to the Mother Goddess—devotion, libations, temples—anything, just to see Persephone smile once more.
She lost track of how long she’d been there, praying and breathing and not pausing to think, when she heard a sound.
Persephone inhaled.
27
Confrontation
Persephone’s throat ached, as though she’d swallowed live coals. She coughed, then blinked, seeing stars.
The night sky was so lovely, so vast in its splendor. She relaxed to feel the living earth beneath her fingertips, and a contented smile crossed her face for a few moments.
“Persephone.”
She found Hades hovering near, wild of eye, her braids all in disarray, her chiton hanging loose from one shoulder.
Persephone sat up in alarm. The drakon. The fire. “How can you be here?” she croaked, then coughed, burying her face in her arm. She swallowed and tried again. “Am I dreaming? Am I dead?” she asked, her voice rising on a note of hysterical terror.
Hades placed her hands on either side of Persephone’s face. “I am here, truly. We are in the overworld, and you are most certainly not dead.”
Persephone embraced her, pressing her face against the crook of Hades’ shoulder. Her hair smelled of smoke, or perhaps the wind was still bringing smoke toward them. “You came back for me,” she said, closing her eyes. No one had ever done that before. They might’ve seen something, heard something, but few dared defy Demeter.
“Always,” Hades said.
Persephone could have stayed like that forever, but her legs started to cramp, and it dawned upon her that they were still not safe. She drew back, brushing her hand across her eyes. Hades was missing a fibula. Persephone smoothed out the loose edges of Hades’ chiton and tucked them into the top of her strophion, turning her gown into a one-shouldered masterpiece. Aphrodite would’ve been so proud of her. “How are you here?” she asked as she adjusted the fabric.
“I gave Zeus something he wanted. His son, Pirithous.”
Persephone blinked. “But his judgment—”
Hades sighed. “He will be mine again, soon enough.” She shook her head, releasing Persephone. “I thought you would be safe. I never suspected—I should have—”
Persephone’s eyes welled with tears. “It’s not your fault. I’m to blame. I—”
“No!” Hades took a deep breath. “Do not cast aspersions upon yourself. You alone are blameless in all of this. Demeter has fallen further than I had ever imagined.” She gave Persephone’s hand a squeeze, then released it. “Can you stand? We must go.” She hesitated. “If you would accept my help.”
Persephone climbed to her feet, with Hades following suit, watching her carefully as though she thought she might fall. Persephone wasn’t that fragile. “Will you take me back to the underworld?” she asked.
Hades clenched her jaw. “If you would so desire.”
“And if I don’t?”
Hades glanced aside. “I will not compel you.”
Persephone breathed out a sigh. That was a good start, but it wasn’t enough. “I have your word?”
“It is yours.”
Now, after everything, Persephone finally had an inkling of what she wanted—no. What she needed. She had to have them both—Hades and the world above. She would not survive without either of them, not anymore. But now was not the time to voice her thoughts. “Then yes,” she said. “We should go.”
“Why? Hades has not yet enjoyed my hospitality.”
Persephone slowly turned from Hades to see her mother approaching on horseback, her nymphs in tow—only two of them this time. As Demeter drew near, she pulled hard on the reins, and her horse reared, pawing at the air before falling back to the earth with a thump.
Hades moved slightly so that she was standing in front of Persephone. “Demeter,” she said, her hand never far from the hilt of her sword.
“Hades,” Persephone whispered. “My mother, she’s found some kind of weapon, a poison—”
Hades’ fingers briefly entwined with hers, silencing her. Persephone worried at her bottom lip, her eyes only for her mother. Only she knew what Demeter was truly capable of. How low she’d stoop to get her way.
Demeter smiled but did not dismount. She wore no armor, but she had brought her bow and a quiver. The orange glow from the torches held by the nymphs illuminated an almost manic gleam in her eyes. “You’ve come for a fight,” she said, glancing at Hades’ sheathed sword.
“I would prefer to talk,” Hades said. “Like rational adults.”
In the distance, the cellar continued to burn, smoke pouring out into the air. The structure groaned as it collapsed in on itself.
Demeter laughed. “A talker would have approached me for my blessing upon Persephone’s marriage.”
“You would have kept her under your thumb for eternity, given the chance,” Hades said.
“As is my right!”
Persephone stepped forward. “You forfeited all rights to motherhood the first day you brought me to that cellar. I decide my fate now.” She inched closer to Hades. “And I choose to be wed to Hades.”
Hades glanced at her, eyes wide.
Demeter sniggered. “How sweet. It sickens me.”
Persephone watched Demeter’s han
ds. “Let us pass, Mother. Zeus blessed our union.”
Demeter narrowed her eyes. “And that should mean what, exactly? Did he carry you for nine months? Did he nurse you at his breast, watch over you as you slept?”
“You gave me life, and I will always be grateful for that.” Persephone held out her palms placatingly as she took a step toward Demeter. “But I must make my own choices now.”
“You would truly choose her?” Demeter asked in disbelief.
Persephone took her gaze off Demeter for a split second to glance at Hades. “Yes. I would.”
When she turned back, Demeter had an arrow nocked. Its metal head gleamed with an oily liquid. “So be it,” she said.
“Persephone—” Hades said.
Persephone didn’t think but simply threw herself in front of Hades. She felt a whoosh of air and heard a thump in the scrub behind her. Then she was falling, her limbs paralyzed, her face upturned toward the sky. She heard shouting, as if from a great distance away, or as though she were underwater.
Her arm burned like it was devouring itself from within. Someone was screaming. She wished, distantly, that they would stop.
“You there!” Hades’ voice. “Find Hermes, tell him to fetch Asclepius—hurry!”
Apollo’s son? She had no need for a healer. She just needed to sleep.
Hades’ face hovered above her, her forehead creased with worry. Persephone longed to reach out and touch her cheek, to reassure her. “Sleep, dearest,” Hades murmured. “The way you used to. That would be best. It will slow the poison.”
Poison. Yes, Demeter had said something about tipping her arrows. But this could not be so; it felt as though her flesh were melting. Surely her mother would never have done something so cruel.
The pain spread from her arm, through her shoulder and down across her chest. The screams abruptly stopped as her lungs felt like they were being squeezed dry of air.
Oh. She had been the one screaming.
Hades took her hand, the one on her uninjured side, and pressed her palm against the dirt. “Return to Gaia, my precious flower,” she said. “Just for a while. You have my assent.”
Persephone drew a long, shuddering breath, and her fingers clenched in the dirt, digging deep to find the smallest speck of moisture under the surface. She closed her eyes, and darkness engulfed her. No fear, no pain, no memories. Just her and the dreaming heart of the earth.
28
Waking
Persephone woke to find herself in a real bed, though the light pouring in over her body was actual sunlight and not the glow of the underworld. The air was dry and warm. Summer. Someone had dressed her in a simple tunic and wrapped a bandage around her arm. She pressed lightly over the bandage and felt no pain. Her fingernails picked at it until she found its end and unraveled it.
A puckered white scar ran across her arm where Demeter’s arrowhead must have grazed her skin. She ran her fingertips over it, frowning, then flinched when she looked properly at her own arms: gaunt, the muscle wasted away. “No, no, no,” she murmured, her hands trembling.
She tried to leave the bed, but her legs refused to support her weight, and so she stumbled, finding herself on the floor. The ceiling swam above her, and she closed her eyes, counting petals under her breath.
Two women rushed into the room and exclaimed over her, tutting. They wore Hades’ colors, a strip of black sewn into their clothes, an insignia that resembled a three-headed dog stitched over their left shoulders. Persephone looked at their faces but saw only strangers. She missed Xenia and her kind smile.
“Where am I?” Persephone asked.
“You are in Epirus, mistress, and this estate is owned by Hades,” said one of the women. The servants plied her with nectar and ambrosia and bade her to remain in bed. Persephone would not have allowed them to confine her thus, save that her legs simply wouldn’t obey her. She was forced to stay, fuming, and eventually drifted off into a restless slumber.
She dreamed in images, for the first time since the night of the fire. In her dreams, the poisoned arrow struck her not in the arm but in her heart, and her ichor flowed freely over the soft loam of the earth.
The next time she woke, she was not alone.
It was mid-morning, judging by the angle of the light. Persephone looked over to see Hades seated by a window, the sunlight streaming over her pale face. She had a few new freckles on her arms, as though she’d been spending more time in the sun. Hades wore gray; the color was so uncommon on her that Persephone had to blink to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken.
As though sensing Persephone’s gaze, Hades turned and smiled. “You’re awake. Thank Gaia.”
“What day is it?” Persephone asked.
Hades paused for a moment before responding. “In the time you’ve been unconscious, babes have grown into men.”
“What?” Persephone leapt out of bed, or tried to. Her weakness had not yet left her, and she still wasn’t used to her new limitations.
Hades hurried over and took her arm. “Easy.”
Persephone had to lean on her, the simple effort of getting up leaving her breathless. Hades guided her to sit back on the bed and sat beside her, ready to catch her again at the first moment of weakness.
“I spent the years wondering if you would ever wake,” Hades said. “Thinking you might die at any moment.”
“Wouldn’t I have been guided to the underworld, then?”
Hades’ gaze was full of misery. “I don’t know.”
That had to gall her—this sliver of ignorance about her own domain. There was no precedent. No god had ever lost their immortality—Ares had come close, once, and the centaur Chiron had been placed among the stars, but that was all.
Persephone’s scar itched. She massaged it with her fingertips, cringing at how strange it felt. She would not keep it. She wanted no mark from Demeter etched into her body.
“Asclepius believes you will make a full recovery,” Hades said.
“Is he here? I should thank him for saving me.”
“He managed to incur Zeus’s ire, and thus he is one of mine now. But he should not receive all the credit. He said you may not have recovered, had you not been able to... hibernate.” Hades’ fingernails picked at the embroidery on Persephone’s coverlet.
“To dream,” Persephone said. She raised a hand to her head, finding her hair twined into a loose braid. Even that simple motion was exhausting, and she dropped her hand back into her lap. “What happened to Mother?”
“When Demeter hurt you, she violated her own function as the personification of motherhood. As with Medea, that crime could no longer be ignored,” Hades said.
“What about all those times she locked me in a cellar?”
Hades looked at her. “It was never specified that she had to be a good mother.”
Persephone knew in the eyes of the other Olympians, the petty crime of neglectful parenting was so mundane as to not attract censure. But Hades knew. She had seen the cellar and inferred the rest. Persephone wasn’t crazy. “Was it not sufficient that she had already once abandoned her duties as goddess of the harvest, leaving so many to die?”
“Humans die all the time, whether through divine intervention or their own folly. But to harm another god...” Hades shrugged. “Her transgressions became too great for appeasement.”
“Meaning?” A chill ran through Persephone. “They didn’t hurt her, did they?”
Hades sighed. “No. But they confiscated the rest of the Lernaean hydra’s venom and executed the mortal supply chain involved in procuring it. Demeter has been told in no uncertain terms not to make contact with you, unless you so desire it.”
It was too much to take in all at once. “I don’t and won’t desire it, at least for a century or so. But she’s my mother.”
“Yes, and she almost robbed you of your immortality,” Hades said.
“I’m fine,” Persephone said, trying to stand again.
Hades bit her lip and watched Pers
ephone as she clutched a side table, leaning on it heavily. Persephone remained in that position for several moments, resting, before she summoned the strength to grope her way to a set of klinai, holding on to the walls and other furniture along the way.
She dropped down onto a kline, breathless with exhaustion. Hades followed and sat opposite.
“I’m fine,” Persephone said, glaring at her.
“As you say.”
Despite her words, Persephone had to rest for a few moments, her eyes closing. The urge to sleep was almost overwhelming, but she brushed it aside—she had been doing too much of that, it seemed. It was time to return to the real world.
“Who did you release from the underworld to be here this time?” she asked.
“No one. Your role as my consort has been accepted by the gods, and I am within my rights to visit you after your convalescence.” Hades’ gaze softened. “I have missed you.”
“And I you.”
Something unreadable passed across Hades’ face. “I confess, you surprise me.”
Persephone pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. The light was too bright here, again. She knew she would grow accustomed to it, but part of her felt a yearning for the cool gray and brown sky of the underworld and the way the mists rose over the rivers. “I’m full of surprises,” she mumbled and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Hades watched her with a concerned expression. “I brought you a gift, if you would permit me.”
“Is it another severed head? I can’t promise I won’t throw up.”
“I have murdered no demigods as of late. The administrative fallout was bad enough the last time.”
Persephone tried to summon her anger and failed. She couldn’t quite bring herself to make light of the events that had led to her flagellation, but neither could she continue to resent Hades for it. “As you like, then.”
Hades walked to the other side of the room for a moment, out of sight. Persephone watched dust motes dancing in a beam of sunlight. It seemed nice here. Epirus. She wondered what the soil was like outside and whether the hot, dry summers would wither all her fruit on the vine.
