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Fear froze her body, froze her fists as she readied for another attack. Fear of what laid on the other side of the ocean; the Underworld, and what Lord Hades would have in store for her. The torture she would eternally live through.
She knew what would happen to her in Hades’ realm, knew the torture he would put her through already.
Her mother, face down on her huge, fluffy bed. Demeter’s body didn’t rise with breath, didn’t move at all in her slumber. Her hair was matted and her fingers were all but gone, gleaming white bones jutting out from a thin, wrinkly palm. Persephone didn’t have to touch her to know she was cold, cold as death. Because she was dead.
The warm body dragging hers through the water had to be from the Underworld, bringing her where her soul was demanded. The thought made her chest cave in, and brought her back to life.
She kicked and scratched at the thing holding her, throwing her head back to hit her captor as hard as she could in the face, if it had a face. Her head connected with something hard, the body jolting back in surprise, before everything went black and she went limp in their arms.
The burning in her chest was unrelenting, and it quickly moved to cover her entire body in fire, the flames licking her skin from the bones. Despite squeezing her eyes shut, she could see the bloody brightness of the Underworld through her eyelids, she didn’t have to open her eyes to know Hades was standing before her, laughing at her pain. The pain he lashed her with over and over and over.
The ground shifted beneath her, causing her body to sway as something pounded in her head, trying to get out. It would claw through her skull by force, if necessary. The pounding moved to her back, thump, thump, thumping like a fist until she threw up, the bile warm on her lap. Coughing up something that burned her nose and her throat.
Her hair was being roughly pulled away from her face, yanked off her scalp, as she kept throwing up the fire in her lungs.
This was her eternal punishment. Not finding her mother’s corpse, day after day, but fire. Scorching, aching, hot flames surrounding her. Tears burned her eyes as everything, everything burned.
Whatever the burning liquid pouring out of her mouth and nose was would be bearable if not for the persistent punching at her back and tugging at her hair. It hurt, everything hurt; her nose and her throat and her eyes and her chest.
The ground was so hot against her already blistering skin that Persephone flinched. Her mother told her the Underworld was bad, a horrible, torturous place – for mortals – but this was unfair. She was a goddess, a child, still ripe with innocence and a long, immortal life to live in front of her. She wasn’t supposed to suffer in the Underworld, suffer so terribly all alone; she was a goddess. She wanted to scream.
Sobbing, Persephone cried for her mother and her stupidly short immortal life. She cried for the friend who had surely drowned with her. They were foolish to have swam so deep.
Then the thumping ceased and a warm hand rubbed her back in its place. Gentle and kind.
Another set of hands were on her shoulders, her face, holding her cheeks and forcing her face up. Forcing her to look up toward the source of the heat. The fire of the Underworld.
“Ugh,” she cried out as her cheek stung, where those hands must have slapped her. She dared to crack an eye open, to peer out at the horrible red and fiery world she was trapped in.
Only to stare into a pair of unknown bright green eyes, framed by tanned olive skin and dark, long lashes.
“Oh, thank the gods.” The boy with the sea green eyes grabbed her face again, more of a caress this time, and smacked a kiss on her wet cheek. “I’m sorry for slapping you,” he said quickly, kissing her cheek again. “She’s okay!” He called over his shoulder before dropping her face and moving out of her line of vision. The blazing sun seared her eyes for a moment before two wet bodies smashed into her, knocking her backward into the sand.
They laid in the sand holding each other tightly until they were slick with each other’s sweat, their limbs slipping onto the ground. By the time Persephone remembered the boy who had saved her, he was already halfway to the main beach. He was running toward a large group of rowdy men, carrying more hunting spears, bows and daggers of the like Persephone had never seen.
She made to stand and rush after him, her hands and ankles sinking into the soft sand beneath her as she pushed herself up. She barely made it three steps before the world swam around her, the ground under her feet unsteady.
Suddenly she was on her hands and knees dry-heaving onto the gritty sand, though she couldn’t remember falling back down. Her hair fell in thick, tangled ropes around her face, the salt clinging to the strands burning her eyes from their close proximity. Grateful for the semi-private space it curtained off for her as she emptied what was left in her stomach – the acid burning her throat and lips.
As her head stopped spinning and her stomach settled, Persephone eased back, resting on her ankles. Melia was already beside her, pushing her hair back behind her ears, away from her sweaty face. Her fingers curling on the lone strands plastered to her forehead, the light scratching of her nails lulling Persephone to close her eyes. She wrapped one arm around Persephone’s shoulders, rubbing her arm and resting her cheek on her hair.
The dull sound of terracotta wares knocking together behind them as Elektra repacked their things, followed by a long splashing sound as she poured the rest of the wine into the darkening the sea.
The sky was burning orange now, the sun going to sleep for the night; the sea undulating gently, as if it hadn’t tried to steal Persephone away hours before. She stared at the setting sun, thinking of nothing but the harrowing moments she’d spent under the water. The moments she thought she was dead on repeat in her mind.
Dark water; warm body; hot fire pouring from her body; a hand slapping her face.
“Next year, let’s find another spot,” Elektra said, pulling Persephone back into her body.
Her throat and chest still burned, a numb ache weighed her body down, making every movement heavier, harder to accomplish. Melia and Elektra helped her to her feet, each grabbing her under the shoulders and slowly heaving her up.
“And,” Melia said, her voice weak but tinged with anger, “let’s remember to mix the wine.”
Neither of them protested, their heads still reeling from the events of the afternoon.
§
Luckily, Melia had found this small secluded pool years earlier while she was hiding from her father and betrothed, Inakhos, the river-god. As a sweet-water nymph, she’d found it quite easily and had actually remained hidden here for just under a year while Persephone and Elektra ventured out to bring her food and well-mixed wine (they never made that mistake again).
