“You’re right. I knew nothing about the dangers around me. And I was helpless because you never taught me how to protect myself!”
“There were things I taught you—”
“To become invisible to mortals. To grow brambles.”
“What else was I supposed to do?!”
“You could have taught me to escape, to travel the ether to safety. But you couldn’t have me running away or relying on myself, could you?”
“Worse could have happened to you there!”
“What, exactly? Discovering the goddess I was born to be?” She folded her arms across her chest and raised her chin. “That I’m more powerful than you are?”
The Harvest Goddess clenched her teeth and the room chilled and darkened. Persephone leaned back as her mother took a slow step toward her. “Do not forget, little one, that I am aeons older than you. I challenged Iapetos the Piercer before the Titans were bound in chains. You will not disrespect me so.”
Persephone flinched, her fists still tight. “Respect is earned, not given, and you’ve never had the decency to show me any. Stay away from me.”
Demeter’s shoulders slumped. “Kore, you don’t mean that.”
“I’m forced to stay here with you,” she hissed as her vision blurred. “Not speak with you or see you. No agreement can force me to do that!” Persephone wiped the back of her hand across her reddened face, brushing tears away. She gulped around the acidic lump in her throat and muttered her thoughts aloud. “Gods above, I cannot wait to go home again…”
“But… your home is with…” Her face fell.
“Home!!” she shouted. “Where I’m called Persephone. Where my husband loves and respects me!”
“Kore, please…”
“Stop calling me Kore, you selfish sow!”
Her mother stood frozen, her jaw slackened and tears brimming in her wide eyes.
Persephone stared forward, frozen, her throat tightening. She picked up her skirts and bounded up the stairs, fleeing the hall and her mother’s quiet weeping. She slammed her door shut and crashed down on her bed, curling up into a ball, waiting for Demeter to angrily fling the door open and demand an apology.
Nothing.
Persephone— Kore, by any measure of how powerless she felt— shuddered and wrapped her arms around her chest. She buried her face in the pillow and bawled.
***
Demeter collapsed in the greenhouse behind the throne room, sobbing. She was furious with herself. Zeus had told her to not fan the flames. But with that argument, she might as well have thrown Kore bodily into Hades’s arms. She huddled, her knees to her chest, the front of her peplos damp with tears. She didn’t see the growing light as the door slowly opened, nor did she hear it shut. Demeter only felt strong arms wrap around her shoulders, and heard Triptolemus whisper comfort and reassurance into her ear.
That night, Persephone heard the groaning of the bed frame in Demeter’s room, and guessed that her mother and Triptolemus had made amends. She didn’t want to ask how or why— it was none of her business, just as her marriage shouldn’t be any concern of Demeter’s. Persephone wrapped her pillow around her ears to muffle their reconciliation.
She and her mother didn’t speak to one another for days after, parting ways each morning to attend their duties. Persephone nurtured the second planting and Demeter made sure the first harvest grew strong and full in its bounty. Mortals and nymphs surrounded Persephone throughout her waking hours. She grew used to the company of Eumolpus and Minthe, and was often joined by a pretty Oceanid named Daeira who was three months along with Hermes’s child. Even so, her separation from Demeter made her feel isolated. Worse still, the constant companionship made her miss her husband all the more.
The week after his departure, Persephone was filled with hope and trepidation, wondering if she would quicken with Aidon’s seed. All the flowers had fallen from the pomegranate trees in Eleusis the night after their coupling, and little bulbs of fruit started to appear on the branches. She took it as a sign. Many of the women in town were as fertile as the fields they tended, and the countryside was full of wives— and a few soon-to-be wives— with radiant smiles and growing bellies. She’d spoken with many about their glad news. But when she shared with them that her husband had been sending souls back from Asphodel to be reborn, many had recoiled in fear.
A few did understand and would give her a wistful smile, saying they wondered if the life they carried was a lost loved one returning to them. Persephone answered honestly, that she did not know— that no one could. One woman, a student of Eumolpus, had said that she planned to name her child Plutus if it were a boy, the closest anyone could come to honoring her husband. There were already a great many Artemisias and Hephaestions, Dimitris and Apollonas living in Eleusis. Why not a Plutus?
Persephone fantasized about what she would name their child if he’d given her one that night under the stars. Of course she would consult with Aidoneus, but her mind happily wandered from name to name as she walked through the fields, filling the plants with renewed life.
Persephone finally settled upon a potent one: Zagreus. ‘King of the Reborn’. It would fit perfectly, given his parentage and the destiny accorded to their eventual son by Zeus’s oath. She giddily wished that she already knew how to write so she could tell Aidon of her idea. More sober reflection reminded Persephone that despite being the Goddess of Spring, fertility personified, she searched for signs of whether or not his seed had taken root in her fertile soil.
The next morning, she awoke to both bed sheet and sleeping chiton stained with blood. Minthe came to wake her and heard her weeping. Persephone lay with her head in the nymph’s lap, and Minthe petted her hair while the goddess cried inconsolably. Persephone said as little as possible when Minthe asked what was wrong. It was better to not divulge too much to Demeter’s faithful servant. The naiad patiently listened to her broken sobs, reassuring her that all would be well. At noonday, Persephone finally arose and washed, sponging her thighs. She wadded a rag inside an itchy loincloth and donned her clean peplos, then resolved that she wouldn’t let any more flights of fancy get the better of her. She would speak plainly with Aidoneus, and together they would decide on how best to conceive.
When she’d made her desire for his child known in the midst of hazy afterglow, he’d remained silent. Was he reluctant to have children? Things had certainly changed since she’d first contemplated the idea of a family with him. Perhaps he desired to talk with her further about it, but had wanted to let her rest. His silence was likely borne of consideration.
Practical questions replaced fancy and loomed over her as she tended the growing crops. How would they raise a child? More importantly, where would they raise it? Would the babe travel with her, or stay at home with Aidon? What would her mother think? Would Demeter welcome Persephone’s child knowing that Hades had sired it?
Demeter came to her the next morning and sat at the edge of her bed. Her weight shifted the mattress, and Persephone stirred from sleep, bleary eyed. A hesitant, almost penitent smile crossed her mother’s features. Demeter held a warm cup of honeyed kykeon, and Persephone could smell a strong dose of ambrosia, pennyroyal and willow bark wafting from the ceramic cup.
“Minthe told me your courses came,” she said quietly. “Here. This will help you feel better.”
Persephone sat up slowly, her hips and lower back still sore, and reached for the offered drink. “How?”
“When taken with ambrosia, the same herbs and tinctures that make humans well can also affect us.” Demeter smiled, trying to reassure her. Persephone regarded at her skeptically. The Goddess of the Harvest folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “It… it is your private life. I should not have said anything. I have my concerns…”
“I know you have concerns.”
“Rightfully so, considering—” Demeter’s voice climbed in pitch before she held her tongue and took in a deep breath. “Daughter, you were right.”
“I often speak of— and suffered from— your father’s hypocrisy. But if I have my own private affairs and chastise you for having yours, then I am no better than he.”
Persephone lifted the cup to her lips and sipped a long draught, the ambrosia mingling with the honey, thickened by the barley. It filled her belly with sweetness and warmth, hiding the bitterness of the herbs. “What assurance do I have that you won’t interfere again? That you won’t heap scorn on my husband or our marriage?”
“None, truthfully.”
Persephone snorted into the cup and took another sip.
“Only that I… promise to try.”
She looked up and set the cup down. The cramps eased and the pain lessened as the pennyroyal and willow bark took effect.
“Kore, I’m sorry.”
“But not enough to call me by my real name.”
“I called you that for aeons. You’ve…” she swallowed, the words heavy in her mouth. “You’ve been… Persephone for only a few months. Please give me time. I cannot change my ways overnight.”
“Mother,” she said with a strained smile, “can I ask you to change one thing right now?”
“You can ask.”
“Please stop disparaging my husband.” She watched Demeter’s lips thin. “I know how you see him. The whole world knows how you see Aidoneus. But I know him, I know the full, unfettered truth of him. And I love him.”
Demeter nodded slowly without meeting her eyes, her forehead creasing.
“He is my other half.” Her mother sighed plaintively, and Persephone felt waves of frustration rolling off of her. She took her mother’s hand in hers. “Just as Iasion was… just as Triptolemus is… your other half.”
Demeter grimaced. “Triptolemus… he is a good man. Iasion was a good man— a great comfort to me. But as for my other half…” Tears formed in Demeter’s eyes. “I chose poorly. My choice gave me you, and you’ve given me more joy than I thought possible, but I chose poorly.”
“But you have someone who clearly loves you now.”
“Yes,” she said. “But he and I will exist for eternity. And love doesn’t last that long. I learned that in the most bitter of ways. It will only be a matter of time. Centuries, if I am fortunate…”
Persephone was about to declare her bond with her husband eternal, to argue that love could last forever, but she stayed silent. What did she know of loss and betrayal? Demeter had loved and been abandoned in her most vulnerable hour, then had loved again and lost. If Persephone boasted about her idyllic marriage, she would only hurt her mother. “I am sorry for what I called you.”
Demeter blinked back tears and stared out the window. Lines of worry melted from her face. She smiled, then laughed.
Persephone leaned back, confused. “Mother?”
“No, it’s all right. I forgive you. I just remembered something from long ago.” Persephone inclined her head to listen as the Harvest Goddess continued. “Your husband called me a selfish sow once.”
“Mother…”
“I promise I am not speaking ill of him.” She brought the back of her hand up to her mouth and laughed again. “It was a long time ago, when I was young and foolish. I deserved it… somewhat. I was with Hecate when they slew Kampe. He’d stumbled back to camp, his hair singed, gashes all over him, his cloak still smoking. And I bounded over to Aidoneus and practically shook him by the armor, begging him to tell me that Zeus was unharmed.”
Persephone’s mouth quirked into a half smile. Demeter never spoke about the war except to exalt her father. And even at that, she hadn’t heard those tales since she was a little girl.
“Oh, the rage I put him into!” Demeter guffawed. “Hecate held him back and I was crying and crying… You should have heard the tongue lashing she gave him afterward, and seen his face when he had to apologize to me.”
Persephone giggled, imagining diminutive Hecate scolding her towering husband.
“But I was selfish back then. Rebellious and childish.” Demeter snorted. “If I had known then what I know now about your father, I wouldn’t have given a fig about his fate.”
Persephone snickered and drew Demeter into a tight embrace. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I love you, Mother.”
“I love you too, Daughter.” She relaxed. “Even if it comes out all wrong.”
“I know.”
“I’ll try. I promise.” She patted Persephone’s back. “Do you feel any better?”
“I do.” She leaned away, a grin spreading across her face. “Can I… blame my harsh words on the phase of the moon?”
“You can.” Demeter’s eyes lit up. “Are you feeling well enough to travel? I hear Thassos is lovely right now.”
20.
For the next two months mother and daughter did not argue. Demeter didn’t fuss over her, or pepper her with questions or insinuations. Persephone didn’t object to Minthe remaining her companion.
Hermes came on each full moon to visit Daeira and deliver gifts for Persephone from Aidoneus: first, an assortment of six jeweled hairpins, then a beautifully embroidered wool shawl woven from the fibers of the world below, and lastly a blank papyrus scroll and stylus pen. Demeter held her tongue. She said nothing when Persephone braided and snipped a lock of her hair for Hermes to take back to the Lord of the Dead. When Eumolpus or Metaneira or one of the Eleusinians mentioned anything about Hades, his realm or the afterlife, Demeter remained tight-lipped and let Persephone speak her mind and heart.
Three days before Persephone was to make her journey to the Underworld, Demeter stood in her daughter’s room, watching Persephone twist her hair into an elegant chignon and secure it into place with a gold and garnet hairpin.
“Why, of all places, would you go to Olympus?” she asked her daughter.
“I was invited,” Persephone said with a smile, tucking a loose strand behind her ear and adjusting her floral crown. She’d chosen an arrangement of asphodel and crocus, and put on the necklace and the jeweled girdle that Aidoneus had given her. She changed the color of her peplos to a rich gold, letting the garnets, rubies and fire opals stand out on their own. It was a dress for harvest— for the time between her dual role as Goddess of Spring and Queen of the Underworld. Her coiffured hair and jeweled raiment made her vaguely uncomfortable. This was as finely as she’d ever dressed, save for the ceremonial robes and jewels worn in Hades’s court at judgement.
Persephone giggled to herself. She half suspected that Aidon had transferred the responsibility of judging the wealthy and powerful to Minos, Rhadamanthys and Aeacus just so he would never have to wear uncomfortable ceremonial attire in his throne room again.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Nothing… a memory.”
“Who summoned you to the mountain, anyway?” Demeter asked softly, folding her arms. “I received no such invitation.”
“My father,” she answered cautiously. “He told me I should visit, and I think now is as good a time as any.”
“But you leave in only three days.”
“Exactly,” she said with a smile. “Tomorrow the wheat reaping begins, and I likely won’t get to visit Olympus while I’m below. This is my only chance.”
Demeter shook her head. “That place is a viper pit. Fornication and gossip are the Olympians’ only currency. There is a reason I go as rarely as possible.”
“Then I should find that out on my own, no?”
Demeter exhaled sharply through her nose. “No, you shouldn’t have to find out on your own— that’s why I’m warning you. It’s not safe— especially if you value your marriage and your privacy. Besides— it’s unwise to journey there alone as a woman.”
Persephone barely suppressed an eye roll. She wrapped her pomegranate-colored shawl around her shoulders. The mornings were crisp and dewy now, and she guessed it would be even cooler on the top of Olympus.
“Who is accompanying you?” Demeter said, following her downstairs through the T
elesterion and into the great hall. She was tempted to ask if Hades was meeting her there for another tryst, and almost drew blood biting her tongue.
“Athena. She’s coming here first. And Hermes said he’d meet us there.”
Demeter’s lips thinned at the mention of Metis’s daughter. She still blamed the Goddess of Wisdom for passively aiding Hades when Kore was abducted from Nysa. “Be careful, Daughter.”
“I promise I’ll be alert and cautious, Mother, and I won’t stay too long. I’ll return before nightfall.” With that, she gave Demeter a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then started for the door. Persephone stepped outside, listening to a lonely sparrow chirp. A great flock of noisy terns flew overhead, bound for the south.
“Persephone?”
Spinning around, she saw the source of the voice, none other than the Patroness of Athens. Athena leaned against the walls of the Telesterion, wearing a sky blue peplos held to her body with a silver cuirass. Her hair was coiffed to hold up a hoplite’s helm that she wore tilted on her head like a crown. It was a lighter, more ornate design than Persephone’s, made in Hephaestus’s forge, not those of the Cyclopes.
“Athena!” Persephone stopped awkwardly in front of her, remembering that the gray-eyed goddess wasn’t as affectionate as she.
Athena surprised Persephone by giving her a tight embrace. “My dear cousin, I’ve missed you… How are you?”
“I’m well, and you?”
“Likewise. What a beautifully woven shawl… a gift from your husband, I presume?”
***
They walked down the Sacred Way, hand in hand, stopping every so often to observe menfolk getting a head start on the barley. The women had resumed their traditional roles inside the home, preparing for harvest, grinding grain into meal, no longer out in the fields. Many had grown heavy with child. Persephone missed seeing them.
“I’ve been watching how everything has progressed since you returned,” Athena said, “and it is simply beautiful. Even I can feel the life in the crops. The greatest part of the harvest is soon, yes?”
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