A desolate land, nothing but drab grass meeting inky sky. No – that’s not right. There’s one of those infamous rivers on the horizon, so dark I thought it was part of the sky but now I see it’s churning too quickly, crashing into itself so loudly I can hear its rage from here. Styx, I realize: the river of hatred.
I am halfway towards it when a screech grates my skin,shatters against my ear drums and leaves my body shaking. My chin snaps up and this time my hand isn’t just reaching for the sickle, I’m holding it before I even think to summon it.
Here is a fact my mother does not know: it is no accident that the sickle doubles as a weapon. I created it that way.
She’s the goddess of agriculture so you’d think she’d have figured that out but, honestly, I don’t think the idea of me being violent has ever crossed her mind. Not because I haven’t been, obviously. Mother might be pressing me into a meek little mould, but I’m still the bloody daughter of Zeus. There is lightning in my blood just as much as there is earth.
And one day I grew tired of stories about followers of my brother Ares hurting innocent people and blaming it all on the demands of war. I wanted to give the people who were just trying to grow things something to defend themselves with.
But, even though I was the one to sharpen the tool for their hands, I’m still startled to see a blade in my own. More startled than I am by the winged creature that soars overhead, continuing to crow. One of the demons of Hell. A Fury, maybe. It does not seem like a threat but, as the person who added petals to the poisonous belladonna, I know better than to trust appearances.
The creature flies into the horizon and slowly I lower the weapon. My arm is shaking.
I turn round because annoyingly Hades was right: I can’t stay out here. It’s too dangerous. And then I catch my first glimpse of the outside of his palace – and stagger back. This part of the realm is not like Olympus at all. It towers in spires and peaks, obsidian black that gleams against the sky, the turrets jagged twists torn to sharp points. And layered oneover the next like some kind of grotesque weave is blade after blade. Primordial blades, to be precise – Titan blades.
These are more than the fallen weapons of a failed uprising – these are trophies of a war I never knew. A war that supposedly ended before Hades was old enough to fight in it …
What have I done?
More urgent than my confusion is my fear. Does each blade mark a life? I’m stuck here with the man who made such a display. I have sought refuge in a realm I thought might be safe because of – what? Stories? And here is the evidence that I am not safe, not safe at all.
I step back, startled – and flowers bloom where I tread, as they often do when I’m anxious. The tether connecting me to this world lurches and the flowers spread, rippling along the fragile grass. I realize I can feel the bond growing, solidifying, even stronger than it was on Earth, like this land is begging for life, like the absence of living things has paralysed it and a single flower is enough to have it gasping, screaming for more.
I don’t know how I’ll explain this to Hades – his land has demanded life and is taking it for itself. I’m not sure how he’ll see this as anything other than me impressing myself on a world that is wholly his. I know what it is to challenge a king’s power. He’ll see it as an attack. But despite everything, despite the very terrifying blades before me, the thought of him seeing something so harmless as an act of aggression appeals.
I think of this morning, all his taunts and snide remarks. Am I really scared of someone like that? And, more importantly, am I really this petty?
Yes. Apparently, I am.
Hades might claim to be above spiting other gods but I am not.
I turn towards that empty expanse and the river in the distance seems to beckon me closer. Well, if I’m going to do this, I may as well do it right.
Up close the water slows, rippling gently, and I find myself entranced by the patterns it makes. I never thought all this darkness could be beautiful, but I find myself wanting to translate this, to create petals whose surfaces dimple, whose colours are black as pitch. I want a flower that twists like the surface of the river and reaches down rather than up, closer to the water. Its roots would run deep, to suck all that it needs to survive here, in this land without a sun, from the river itself.
My irritation is soothed by the peace of creation. The comfort of finding inspiration in a place like this, with a blade at my thigh and a thousand more coating the palace behind me. Looking at the river, I think maybe there is a life for me here. At the very least, there will besomelife here, something living in this land of the dead.
I shove my fingers into the soil and am about to bring my flower to existence when I rethink. Why make more darkness when there could be colour instead? Wouldn’t all the black look darker beside something bright?
I think of fluffy pink petals, the sort of thing Hades would hate, folding on themselves like tissue paper. Almost a peony but not quite. Big, round blossoms striking against the wine-dark waters.
I feel roots flow from my fingertips and when it is finished I whisper its name like a caress.Styx, like the river itself.I suppose that makes it mean hate, but what is hate but passion? A promise? Gods have sworn binding oaths on this river for as long as I can remember.
And, of course, there’s the hate Hades will have for me taking any form of joy from this land. I hope it irritates him, puts into perspective how ridiculous he is – angry over a girl seeking refuge? Over something as simple as flowers in his realm?
Maybe he should be.
Fingers still buried in the soil, I feel every flower in this new meadow. I close my eyes and tell them to bloom and seed and spread. I’ll cover his realm in a thousand flowers.
I’ll ensure Hades can’t even look at his domain without seeing mine.
IRUSH BACK INTO THE PALACE,letting my flowers multiply. I’ll explore more of the realm tomorrow, when I can see how far they’ve reached. It’s astonishing – I’ve never known power like it. Creating a meadow of flowers takes energy. Usually it tires me. But this time I feel energized. It was so easy. Maybe the realm’s hunger for life helped, like it wasn’t just my own power I was drawing on.
I spend the rest of the day scoping out the palace. At first, it feels like spying on my father, if these rooms really are an exact replica of his. But I soon realize they can’t be. The structure, yes, but the contents must be different because this place feels practical – filled with libraries and meeting spaces, empty council chambers and tidy offices. I may not have seen it, but I know my father’s palace is designed for far more leisurely pursuits. There’s likely a lot more furniture one can be horizontal on.
I notice it at first by accident. I’m trying to work out where a fireplace leads from one floor to the next, and I realize the room I’m looking for is missing. Then I realize more are missing, too.It’s subtle and clever and, if I hadn’t spent so long making maps of my island, I likely wouldn’t have the awareness of space to put it together – but enormous rooms on one floor are tiny cupboards on the floor above.
Which means Hades has places he’s hiding, likely filled withthingshe’s hiding. And, as I don’t encounter him all day, I can only assume that’s where he’s spending his time.
