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She works with intense focus, so intense Demeter startles when she turns around to find Persephone where she left him. His blue gaze is empty, a dull and lifeless shine to irises that usually bloom with an array of colors.
“You may go now,” she says. Her words are full of an aggressive command for him to leave, but Persephone remains rooted in his spot.
“You commanded me here to work, Demeter. I will stay by you and complete those tasks.” Persephone watches her with the same lifeless eyes, and Demeter sucks her teeth. She knows she cannot disagree with him—shedidcommand him home under the guise of needing him for work. Now that Persephone is here, and it’s known he is the God of Spring, Demeter has to allow him the rights of his station. Things have changed from before, and she’s not sure he understands his position or his power. Demeter knows she will have to play this safe, so that Persephone doesn’t undermine everything that Demeter is and all that she’s’s created.
“Fine,” she replies, at length. With a stiff gesture, Demeter commands Persephone to clean up the remaining bulbs from their workbench. “I’ll be tending to the waterlilies for Hera’s infinity pool. If you need my help, let me know.”
Another of his lifeless expressions settles over her, but Persephone doesn’t speak. He reaches for the bulbs on the work surface and lifts one up for inspection. Demeter watches as the less-than-perfect, but living bulb shrivels in Persephone’s palm. A chill moves through the humidity of the room. Demeter pauses. An unsettling shiver trickles down her spine as she watches Persephone. He looks the same as he did when he first went to Hades' realm, but there’s a change in him—a change that possesses all who return from the realm of the dead. She didn’t think Hades could get under the skin of her son—her son who is life, beauty, and all things Demeter gives to the world. As much as she finds him disgusting, Demeter can admit Persephone is a being in her own likeness. Yet, here he stands—radiating death, rot, and endless void. It is what Hades pulses through the lands, the haunting reminder to mortals that all things end. Demeter scowls; all things but the gods are finite, and she knows Hades will wash from Persephone’s skin. In time, her son will be the near-perfect heir she bore.
Demeter says nothing, knowing better than to draw attention to Hades' powers in her son’s fingertips, a sure sign they consummated their sham marriage. Zeus warned her,A consummation is proof of love, and I will not stand against love. None of us will, Demeter. We honor love as a sacred oath.
Zeus' naivety amuses Demeter. For a philanderer, he has an idealized view of love. Love was not in the room with Demeter when she lay with faceless gods—namelessgods—to seed her womb. They were a means to an end and nothing more.
Demeter would bet her soul that Hades is much the same. Persephone was nothing to that goddess, just a fleeting fancy that helped chase away the monotony of endless days.
“When you’re done with that, I want you to start seeding the spring hyacinths. Hestia says the children love them.”
Persephone nods. “Yes, Mother.”
His voice is dulled by resignation, but Demeter detects the sharp edge of hatred.
31
Hades
Love is a reckless game. It is the game of mortals; the ones who beg to know the burn of love. They die for love—kill for it—withering away in sorrow for a fleeting feeling. They ache for love in thousands of terrible ways; Hades spent many a night puzzling overwhy.Love, as she knew it, was cruel and demanding. Often, love hollowed out a woman. She watched Rhea be lesser for Kronos, and she witnessed Hera turn from a bright beacon into a bitter husk of her former self. All for an idiot.
Love is a malediction, and Hades—Queen of the Underworld—finally fell prey to such a curse.
Sheacheswith Kore’s loss. Hades sits in her throne room, judging the dead, and he is missing from her—a phantom limb that burns and throbs, reminding Hades it once was an intimate part of her body.
An itch she can no longer scratch.
She tries. By Chaos, Hades tries.
She sits in meetings, hoping the drone of voices will chase away the deep chuckle that taunts Hades—a wicked reminder that lingers in the space Kore once filled.
Some nights, Hades settles into a bath and the hot water tickles her skin with the same warmth as Kore’s palms. These moments scald Hades, and fill her with a strange sense of longing. Hades has many regrets, but they were never for a lover—only for how she conducted herself as a ruler.
Kore becomes her largest regret. One she cannot outrun.
The scent of daffodils assaults Hades when she steps into her bedroom. Knees trembling, Hades staggers, and her pale hands catch against the ornate mantle. The pewter rendition of her is freezing against her palms; a startled laugh tears out of Hades' throat as she looks into the lifeless face. The artist, whose name Hades has since forgotten, rendered her cruel. This pewter face is hers, but it wears an expression she doesn’t recognize—reminding her of all the things Kore said to her to make her feelseenfor the first time.
A sob wrenches out of Hades' throat as she buckles to the marble floor. Her nails claw at the stone, leaving no mark of her grief.
That’s how Thanatos finds her. His eyes soften over Hades, and he wears his grief with an expression of rage. He is Hades' child through and through, despite the fact he wears his mother’s face. Nyx gave birth to Thanatos, but Hades raised him at her hip and knee. Thanatos and Hypnos each walked a step behind her, rising from her shadows when needed. Nyx might be a birth mother, but she doesn’t possess a mother’s heart. Hades is the one who wears a mother’s pride as she stares up at her son.
The one who morphs from boy to man as he lifts his helmet.
Polished black steel covers the silvery-white hair that falls down to Thanatos' strong chin. His face reminds Hades of the old stone statues carved by famous artists. Artists who are dust in some parts of time, but who are young boys with bright-eyed dreams in others. In all junctures of time, Hades wants to tell them their statues are nothing compared to the faces ofrealgods.
In her world, Hades sees people in all stages of life—before, during, and after. As the keeper of Kronos and the Fates, Hades witnesses life in each phase—moments that run parallel, flowing like rivers. Though her brothers and the other greater gods know that time moves in infinities; though they know their modern world is behind certain threads of humanity; Hades is the only god—besides Kronos and the Fates—who witnesses the mysteries of Chaos.
Her access to the rivers of time only gives Hades knowledge of mortal futures, their pasts, their deaths, and the world before their conception. She doesn’t witness her father’s fal,l or that of her grandfather. Hades isn’t privy to the scream of Chaos that bore her grandmother Gaia. She isn’t privy to the violence Gaia suffered beneath Ouranos. Hades cannot witness the way her father castrated his sire to protect his mother; ironically, Kronos killed his father for the acts of violence Ouranos gave Gaia when Kronos gave similar violence to Rhea. Hades witnessed her father’s hypocrisy. She was locked away by that hypocrisy, as was Poseidon. Only Zeus grew up free of Kronos' bruises and lashing tongue.
Thanatos' deeper voice pulls Hades from her trip down memory lane. His large hand, newly changed, reaches for hers, and Hades takes the offering with a grateful smile. She rises from the floor, feeling foolish for becoming desolate over a man.
“Why are you wearing your helmet?” she asks, reaching up to adjust the heavy steel. Just yesterday Hades would’ve looked down at Thanatos, but now she looks up into his face. Her heart hurts, the way every mother’s does when she watches her young son grow into a man.
