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“Yeah, well, Demeter likes to hide me as much as she can.”
Kore lifts the joint to his lips to lick the paper and finish his roll.
Dimos doesn’t pry into their family affairs. He’s not here for gossip. Like all the visitors Kore has to the greenhouse, Dimos is here for the best kush on Olympus.
The strain Kore grows in Demeter’s beloved greenhouse.
A spiteful retaliation against a woman who views herself above fault.
Smoking and avoiding Demeter are the things that help Kore exist in this place.
He reaches for a pouch, one of many that line the work table—beautiful, silken pouches embroidered by the many flower nymphs at Kore’s command.
“What’s the price this time?” Dimos asks, as Kore sets the silk into his waiting hands.
“I’ll tell you when I’ve decided.” A shrug of Kore’s broad shoulders casually emphasizes his reply.
Kore doesn’t need money. He has rich customers, and worshipers who leave bountiful offerings at the feet of feminine statues meant to represent him—the version of him that his mother does not correct for this world or for that of the mortals. From lesser gods and deities, Kore prefers to deal in favors. Favors serve him better than coins.
“Thank you,” Dimos says with a bow. His short, furry legs dip with the motion.
“Hurry out of here. Demeter’s coming back soon.” Kore tells him, waving Dimos off with a lazy gesture. It’s a lie, of course; Demeter doesn’t visit the greenhouse when she can sense Kore within the glass structure.
Once Dimos is out of sight, Kore releases a tired sigh. He carries his freshly rolled joint and moves toward the chair he keeps by the waterfall, a monstrosity his mother crafted within her glass palace. Kore enjoys the sound of the water splashing against jagged rocks. His paperback lies open, a rumpled, abused tomb that thousands of others have read before him. He lifts the creased book, glancing over the words with a frown. Mortals love to write about the gods. As if knowing the gods’ names gives the mortals intimate insight into the divine inner workings. Often mortals get the information wrong.
Kore shakes his head as he smokes, grinning down at the Homeric Hymn dedicated to his mother.
I begin to sing of Demeter, the holy goddess with the beautiful hair. And her daughter Persephone too. The one with the delicate ankles, whom Hades seized.
Kore laughs, a cloud of pungent smoke falling from between his lips as he glances down at his bare feet and ankles. Nothing delicate there. His body is enormous and masculine; comparative to Eros, especially by the giggling nymphs who surround Kore. Often they whisper behind delicate hands, eying him with desire while he ignores their obvious interest.
As he reads more of the baseless drivel, Kore frowns at the notion that Zeus is his father. Everyone knows his mother would rather impale herself on a spear than ride Zeus' well-spread cock. Kore’s father is a lower god, a servant to his mother, and Demeter paid handsomely to get what she wanted.I paid him to leave. Kore doesn’t even know the man’s name, just that he served his purpose. Demeter often tells Kore that, as expected of a man, he did a piss-poor job ensuring that she’d bear a daughter.
As he reads of the seasons, of his mother’s despair at losing her only daughter, Kore snorts. His mother does despair for a daughter. The daughter that never was. Perhaps this hymn is one she wishes was true, for even if she had to share a daughter with a king, Demeter would have her beloved Persephone. The Persephone she intended to birth, the name Demeter bestowed on Kore as a punishment.
Unworthy. That’s what Demeter always says when Persephone’s name whispers into the world. Unworthy of his name, the name she meant for a daughter. A name she speaks with loathing rather than love.
He snaps the book closed, his joint sucked down to a small bit which Kore adds to the clay ashtray by his seat.
Kore rubs his fingers over tired eyes; envying mortals, and not for the first time. At least they can die. At least time passes for them. Mortal days have meaning. He will endure his mother’s disappointment until Chaos swallows creation back into darkness.
“Kore,” Samia says from beside him, causing Kore to glance up from his feet. “We’re supposed to be at the school soon.”
“Ugh,” he sighs, standing from his seat with a groan. “Is that today?” Kore hoped he’d have an afternoon free, but he often pays for the impulses of his former self. Too often, when he’s morose or high—or both—Kore volunteers for jobs around Olympus. Work keeps him off Demeter’s radar, as the tech-age mortals would say. Working with Hestia guarantees Kore won’t run into his mother. Demeter loathes small children more than she despises Kore, and he’s safest from his mother’s infinite wrath when working at Hestia’s school. Working with children isn’t something he’d choose for himself, but Kore takes any opportunity to distance himself from Demeter.
“Yeah, that’s today,” she says, shaking her head. The short, brown curls on Samia’s head bounce with her movements.
Samia smiles at him in that mischievous way all nymphs do when they want to flirt. Kore ignores it, knowing nothing good will come from involving himself with a nymph who works with him daily. He’s not looking for companionship and it would complicate life if he slept with Samia. Kore knows he’d break her heart. Indulging Samia would add more annoyance to his life.
“Are you working at the school this week, too?” He asks as he shoves his feet into his well-worn black shoes.
“I signed up with you. Don’t you remember?” Samia giggles while taking his arm. Kore should shake her off. He doesn’t; allowing her to hold on to him as they make their way to the school—home to all the newly born gods, demigods, and lesser deities of Olympus.
4
Hades
Zeus decides Hades is spending dinner with him and his family, much to Hades' chagrin.
