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Homer frowns down at the feet he faces, swallowing as he tries to understand the meaning of this god’s words.
“Raise your head, Homer,” the god commands. He does; fear makes Homer eager to obey.
Shock widens his eyes.
A man stands before him, a man who retains the beauty of youth. Hair, the color of golden wheat, falls in soft waves over the god’s forehead. His eyes are as blue as cloudless skies in spring, his skin imbued with a sun-kissed glow. This god is nothing of the fearsome, terrifying man Homer described.
As if reading Homer’s thoughts, the god before him releases another bright laugh. His big white teeth gleam; a smile made sinister by the hearths’ fires.
“Who do you think I am, Homer?” The god asks, amusement dancing in his blue eyes.
“King Hades.” Homer scrambles to touch the god’s feet, begging for forgiveness. “I did not know, sire, please. Please, my lord. Do not send me to Tartarus!”
“Hmm,” the god hums, stepping away from Homer’s old hands. “You beg the wrong god.” His amusement is palpable when he continues, “I am themaidenyou told mortals of, Homer. The one stolen from sunshine. A damsel held captive in darkness and despair.”
Horror widens Homer’s eyes. He dares a glance up—at the throne—and catches the goddess smiling, her expression frigid.
“Tell me, Homer, why should I spare you from Tartarus for sullying my name?”
The goddess, Homer realizes, is Hades. The god—who makes his way to Hades' side with a booming laugh—can only be…
“Persephone,” Homer whispers with disbelief.
“Listen to us, myth weaver, and I will consider sparing you,” Hades says. Her tone allows no room for refusal.
Persephone laughs before he speaks, and the sound buckles Homer’s knees. “Would you like to hear an epic tale, Homer? One woven in truth rather than the rumors of mortals?” Persephone asks; kneeling beside the Throne of Hades, Persephone leans his head against her bare knee.
Homer nods, muted by terror and curiosity.
“How do these tales begin, my love?” Persephone tilts his head up, peering at the goddess who sits as still as marble. He grins when Hades doesn’t reply. Persephone turns toward Homer, with narrowed blue eyes, and begins. “Once, long ago, Zeus, King of the Gods, said that Hades, Queen of the Underworld, should be married and ruled by a king.”
1
Kore
Demeter’s gaze reminds Kore of harvest-time wheat. Kore finds his mother’s eyes no less itchy, as the golden shade of that stare slides over his body. Clawing at his skin and leaving hives in its wake.
Disappointment radiates from her tall form, filling the greenhouse with an ominous air. The peonies that bloom around them droop, their petals wilting as if they too can feel the hatred Demeter has for her son.
“This isn’t what I asked you for,” Demeter says. In her hand, she crushes the daffodil. Opening her palm, Demeter watches with disgust as its dust drifts toward her sparkling shoes. Dust that joins all of Kore’s failures.
“Persephone,” she begins, glaring at the child she coveted. A child she craved, but despised from the moment she had him in her arms. “Are we attending a funeral?”
No.The question is rhetorical, but he answers her regardless. “We’re attending a feast to celebrate the birth of Hebe.”
Demeter hums, taking a step toward the many bejeweled vases Kore prepared for Hebe’s celebration, all of them full of yellow and white daffodil blooms. All except for one, a daffodil Kore crafted into a deep purple, near black. That arrangement, decorated for Queen Hades, is the only one that Kore made differently.
With a twisted mouth, Demeter touches one of the dark petals. “You crafted a unique flower for Hades,why?”
“I wanted to make something that would match the darkness of the Underworld,” Kore admits. Quiet anger makes his mother harder to read and he’s unsure if that was a correct answer. Apparently not, he discovers, when Demeter throws Queen Hades' vase to the floor with her top lip drawn back, white teeth exposed.
“Hades is not invited to the celebration. Neither is the flower she’s claimed for her own. Do away with them, Persephone.” Hateful eyes narrow over Kore, “Don’t ever grow another narcissus in my greenhouse. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Kore says. He keeps his face impassive; meeting her anger with his own won’t end well for him. Kore isn’t half as stupid as his mother pretends.
“Lilies should be on all the tables. Honor Hera, as it is her daughter’s feast; not Hades'.”
“Yes, Mother.”
