Destroyer of Light (43 page)

Her husband sneered. “An oath from her isn’t worth—”

With a glance, Persephone silenced Aidoneus. She turned back to her mother, placing a hand on her shoulder, and spoke low. “Swear it.”

“I swear on the Styx… for as long as we live, I will never harm you.” She choked on her words, acid welling in her throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I will never harm your husband, or your marriage, ever again.”

“Neither will you speak against it…”

Demeter shuddered. “And I will… I swear on the Styx I will not speak against your marriage. Ever. Oh gods, Persephone, I’m… I’m…”

“Rise, Mother.”

She stood before her daughter, her eyes cast to the ground. “Daughter, will you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”

“Forgive, yes. But trust… I need time.” Persephone smiled faintly. “Fortunately, the deathless ones have nothing but time.”

Demeter stood frozen. Persephone wrapped her arms around her mother, drawing her into an embrace. Demeter sobbed anew. “My dear sweet child…”

“I understand why you did what you did. That doesn’t make it right."

“When he came to Olympus I thought I would never see you again,” she cried. Her eyes opened wide as she thought about all the mortals who had passed, the starving faces looking up at her when she was grieving. “Gods, what I did… what I had to do just to be able to see you… You were gone… gone…”

“Deme…” Aidoneus spoke quietly. “Do you remember when we forged our pact? It wasn’t meant to take away Persephone then, and it isn’t now. I am as I was, and I’m not cruel enough to deny you the company of your daughter anymore than I can deny her yours.”

“She was married to
you
, Aidon. And your home is beyond this world. Beyond me for all time.” Demeter shook. “She would join your house and leave me forever. It… it is that way for all women.”

“That is
their
world.” he said. He bit at his cheek and sighed, glancing at Persephone. His wife would want him to make some concession. Aidoneus looked at the ground. “Demeter, I should never have involved Zeus. I thought I was doing the proper thing; I should have gone to you directly.”

“Zeus is her father.”

Hades scoffed. “He did nothing to raise her.
You
were her mother, her teacher, her protector. I should have respected that. And I should have gone to you alone.”

“I don’t know if I would have…” The Goddess of the Harvest sniffled around half-formed thoughts and wiped her eyes with the edge of her veil. “But now… the Agreement…”

“We cannot undo it, nor should we. It would make Zeus think he can break oaths whenever he pleases,” Aidoneus said with a half-suppressed smirk. “Moreover, I could never deprive my wife of the sunlit world. Persephone needs it as much as the world above needs her.”

Demeter’s mouth went dry and she paled. Persephone turned to face her, her brow knitted, her anger rising. Had Demeter hidden her role in this world from her throughout her life, claiming it instead as her own?

“Wife,” Aidoneus said gently, petting her shoulder. “Your mother didn’t know. Everything has changed. Because of the seeds, because of the Agreement, this world now relies on you to grow new life.”

Persephone’s shoulders slumped and she looked to Aidoneus. “So we can never be free of this, then. I will never be able to come and go at will.”

“No, much though I wish it was so. After you left, I inquired everywhere for a means to keep you for longer each year. I learned from Nyx, who consulted the Fates themselves, that this is
your
divine role, now. You are the Queen, but you are also Spring. Death and Life.”

Demeter wrapped her arms around her body, shaking. “This is my fault.”

“No,” Aidon said. “This is
ananke
. This is the way it was fated to be. These cycles, the seasons, everything.”

Demeter stared north, toward Olympus. “Gods age and change when the world itself changes. Now it will change constantly and nothing can stop that.”

“After we made the Agreement, I’m certain Zeus knew this would happen.”

Demeter and Persephone turned to Hades, each of their faces mirroring the other’s worry.

“As King of the Gods, Zeus is more privy to the will of the Fates than any of us,” he continued. “There was a reason he didn’t give Persephone to me outright once she reached womanhood. He hoped I would forget; that I would be too busy with my kingdom, or that some woman below would tempt and distract me. He couldn’t have known that Persephone’s existence would be intertwined with new life springing up from the earth, the seasons and the gods changing, otherwise he would have never agreed to the marriage. But he surely knows now.”

“With the Agreement, with the Eleusinian Mysteries, we have taken from them,” Persephone said. “They didn’t forgive Prometheus when he stole their fire. Will they retaliate against us?”

“Possibly,” Aidoneus said. “But subtly, knowing them.”

It would be foolish to underestimate them. Persephone drew in a heavy breath. “We can’t survive like this, pitted against one another. I am not asking you to forgive each other after all these aeons. But please, in the name of your love for me, at least agree to a truce.”

She looked to Aidoneus first, who nodded curtly to her. Her mother’s jaw tightened and she cast her eyes to the ground. “I will.”

Persephone grasped Demeter’s hands, a faint smile on her face. She threw her arms around her again and felt her mother’s stiffness melt away, overcome with quiet sadness. Persephone could feel guilt and resignation emanate from Demeter, but also a weight lifting from her chest. Persephone squeezed her tighter. “I love you, Mother. I’ll see you in six months.”

A tear rolled down Demeter’s cheek. “I love you too.”

Aidoneus headed toward the chariot. The horses idly nibbled on the mint sprigs dotting the ground but came to attention as their master approached. He climbed onto the chariot and offered Persephone his hand. She stepped in front of him, secure between his arms. With a shake of the reins they were off.

***

“I still don’t trust her.”

“I don’t expect you to,” she said as they descended through Erebus. “As I told her, I don’t fully trust her either.”

“But you trust me?”

She remained quiet.

“I know something has been eating away at you, Persephone.”

She gave no answer.

“I can feel it. You know I can.”

She swallowed, the pungent smell of mint still permeating his clothes. “Not now.”

“Please, just tell me.”

“I’ve gone through too much today, Aidon. Can it wait?”

He stiffened. “Of course.”

They rode through the darkness, and Persephone turned to face him. She tugged at his himation until it fell from his shoulders and pooled around his feet.

“Sweet one?”

“I’m sorry,” she said angrily, her voice shaking. “I just can’t stand her scent on you any longer.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“It’s not, though.”

“Who was Leuce?”

“She was a nymph that once tended the golden poplar tree at the palace entrance.”

“What was she to you?”

“Nothing. To her dismay.” He paused, and she could feel shame wash over him. “Leuce wove crowns for me. I had acquainted myself with everyone who served the grounds when I arrived. I befriended her, but she was not content with that. One morning, she offered herself to me and I spurned her. I sent her away. Or rather, I had Hecate send her away.”

“Were you tempted by her?”

“Only for as long as it took me to wake up and recognize that
she
was touching me and not—” He cleared his throat. “She was trying to arouse me while I was dreaming.”

Persephone leaned into him. “What did you dream?”

“You know whom I was dreaming about,” he said roughly. Aidon recalled the dream, recurring and persistent, one that had haunted him before the golden arrow, before Kore, Persephone, came into his life. “It was always brief visions and flashes, never anything complete. But I… I often dreamed that we… that I was with…”

Persephone felt for his face in the dark, remembering when she had first made this descent with him, her linen dress burnt to ashes, her limbs wrapped around him. It had been so long, and all she could think about was her relief when she had healed him, the ardent, protective love he had expressed when he defended her, and how he’d humbled himself in front of Demeter. Her fingers brushed over his cheekbone and he turned quickly to the side to kiss her palm. Persephone grabbed his head with both hands, winding her fingers through his hair, and brought his lips down over hers.

Aidon tightened the reins in one hand and brought her closer with the other, feeling her legs inch up and wrap around him. His tongue pushed into her mouth, stroking hers rhythmically.

“I don’t want any trace of
that woman
on you,” she hissed against his lips. “I only want
my
scent on you.”

His blood burned when he kissed her, but blazed hotter at her words. She was jealous. That potent knowledge filled him with renewed desire, and he felt guilt boiling up underneath his growing need. He’d never tasted her jealousy before, and he thought how Zeus had used that foul emotion to control Hera all these aeons. His musings were banished when her nimble fingers reached under his tunic. He closed his eyes, his voice thick. “Persephone…” She wrapped her fingers around him and slowly stroked up from the root, circling her thumb over the tip. He had to make sure, before his ability to think rationally was overthrown. “Sweet one, after all that has happened—”

Aidon, please…
Her tongue silenced him and twined with his as she gripped him. His free arm pulled her closer.
I need you.

He dragged her up his body, her heels digging into his sides before her legs wrapped around him. She hoisted her skirts above her waist and felt his palm land on her rump to lift her higher, then reach under to massage and lightly squeeze her vulva. She ground against the tips of his fingers, her hips gyrating against him.

He listened to her impatient mewling against his neck as he trailed his fingers through her labia. Aidon caught her scent, sweeter than any honey or nectar. A fresh surge of need instinctively bucked his hips toward hers at the thought of tasting that sweetness again when they were safely home. Persephone locked her lips against his and yanked the last of his clothing from between them. She felt the tip of his cock prod against her, seeking entry. She wiggled atop Aidoneus, drawing a frustrated groan from him. “I think,” he said gruffly between kisses, “that from now on I’ll retrieve you myself from the world above.”

“I would like that,” Persephone whispered into his ear. She sank down, listening to the air rush from his lungs as she joined with him at last. She felt his fingers dig into her thigh, lifting her up before thrusting deeply. She cried out, filled and fulfilled, quivering around him, milking him with every rise and fall.

“Perhaps we could make this our yearly tradition,” he said, breathless and hot against her neck. His tongue trailed along her jaw line. Persephone closed her eyes in silent agreement and arched her back, sighing against his searching lips.

Her questions could wait…

“She has questions.”
The voice was a reedy whisper.

“They all have questions,” a richer voice said.

“Their questions will never stop,” a third female voice chimed in. “The trees hang with fruit. And who will pluck the seeds but her?”

Persephone sat up, clutching the bed sheet to her palpitating heart. Aidoneus breathed slowly, his eyes closed, undisturbed. She had woken frequently, throughout the night, vaguely aware of tossing and turning next to Aidon. Her body was attuned to the world above, where it was still daylight. Her reunion with Aidon had pleasantly exhausted her, but it was a shallow substitute for deep sleep. The voices haunted her.

Three voices.

They had never spoken to her directly, but she knew deep in her soul to whom those voices belonged. Persephone slowly scooted to the edge of the bed so as not to wake her husband, and her skin prickled when her feet touched the cold stone floor. She’d grown too used to the warm wood, thick fleece, and summer breezes of her mother’s home. Persephone shut the curtain and padded across their bedroom, hastily pinning her peplos at the shoulders, and fumbling in the dark to tighten the thongs of her sandals around her ankles. She donned her shawl and wound her hair up as she walked through the antechamber, then down the steps to the throne room.

Pomegranates, olives, figs, and amphorae of oil and kykeon still lay about the hall, as though time had stopped in the wake of their hasty departure. The lights were dim. She gazed up at the dais.

“You won’t like what they have to say.”

Persephone whipped around to see Hecate, dressed in white.

“Their answers will be as clear as a silt bog and will drown you just as surely.”

She thinned her lips. “Even so, they will be more clear than the answer you gave me six months ago.”

“My queen, consider what you’re about to do.”

“If
ananke
is unchangeable, what harm could come of speaking with the Fates?”

Hecate smiled. She’d heard those same words aeons ago. “More than you know. Your husband could answer better.”

“If you truly don’t want me to go,” Persephone said, standing tall, “then you will answer me plainly.”

“My queen…”

“Are Aidoneus and I able to bear children?”

Hecate’s shoulders fell. “I cannot answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not know the answer.”

Her brow knit. “Then I’m left with little choice but to speak with them.”

The Goddess of the Crossroads shook her head. “That choice will turn you into a cistern that can never be filled.”

“They’re just words, Hecate.” The Queen paused, staring at the ground. “You know the way, don’t you?”

“Persephone…”

“You know how to reach the Cave of the Moirai. You, Nyx, my husband, abide by
ananke
, no? The very will of the Fates?”

“We do. Which is why you should ask your husband.”

Persephone’s eyes clouded with tears and her throat tightened. “I can’t.”

“You fear asking him, yet would go to those whose words you should fear above all else?”

“What if Aidon doesn’t know the real answers?”

“Aidoneus knows what they told him,” Hecate said, grimly. “The words of the Fates drove him like a ship against a rocky cliff when he first arrived here.” Persephone frowned. “We feared his mind might never be clear again. In some ways it is still clouded. He loves me like a mother, but your husband’s wrath would be great if I set you on that same course.”

“Then that tells me all I need to know. I won’t betray you if you take me to them.”

Hecate cocked her head to the side and peered at her. “They visited you in dreams.”

“Which means that they invited me to come and will tell me the truth.”

“They will not lie, but neither will their words be etched in stone. Their world is as fluid as ours. Many threads lead to them, many threads lead away. To them, even the gods are dust. Fibers and felt. Threads, twined and twisted about, then guided into the loom. And those paths change direction, just as yours did when you ate the pomegranate seeds.” She stared at the Queen. Persephone stood resolute. Hecate sighed and willed a torch into her hand, the end lighting as her fingers brushed over its tip. “But I already know this river, much as I foolishly try to resist its currents. Nothing will change your mind, will it?”

“Not before the Styx flows backwards.”

“Follow me, then.” The Goddess of the Crossroads vanished from sight, and Persephone startled, the room growing dim as Hecate’s torch faded with her.

Hecate never really leaves the ether. She is its goddess— as much a ruler of all the spaces and pathways between the worlds as I am ruler of the Underworld.

Remembering Aidon’s words, Persephone stretched her hand forth and fire swirled before her, dilating and burning wildly at the edges. The great crimson and silver twisting expanse of Hecate’s home appeared before her. She stepped through and faltered, barely keeping her footing, distracted by vertigo.

“You bridge this divide often.” Hecate’s voice came from all directions. “Have you never visited my home without knowing your destination?”

“No.”

“You have much to learn, then.” The red-haired goddess coalesced before her. On either side of the Goddess of the Crossroads were faint outlines of her younger and older self, each holding torches. Vertigo struck Persephone and Hecate caught her hand as she lurched backward. “Steady.”

“Where are we going? Why can’t I just step through?”

Hecate chuckled to herself. “You are more like him than you know.”

“You took him there?”

“Aidoneus demanded I do so. I could not dissuade him, either,” Hecate said, the smile erased from her face. “We are going to the Cave of the Moirai, at the headwaters of the Styx.”

Persephone raised a quizzical eyebrow. The Styx flowed so deep and endlessly, She didn’t think it had headwaters.

“Everything in this cosmos has a beginning. And everything begins and ends with the Weavers.”

Persephone stumbled forward, falling onto solid ground. She lay there for a moment before she could replace the air that had been knocked out of her. She brushed gravel from her stinging hands, then stood and shook the dust off her peplos.

Where was she?

The hazy sky was a deep red, half way between day and night. Was it twilight, or dawn already?

“Hecate?”

She was alone. Her voice sounded empty. Fog obscured everything, making the space around her feel small and confined. There were no mountains, no rivers, no asphodel. There was no glow from the Phlegethon and no light from the Styx. A stream of water bubbled and sloshed against the pebbles underfoot.

It’s been here since Chaos gave the cosmos form from the void. It is the mother of all waters above and below the earth. Persephone understood, her skin turning to gooseflesh when she realized where she was. This inconsequential trickle of water was the mighty River Styx.

Time— the past and the future— was unknown here. She stood in a space beyond all concept of time, perhaps before Chaos, perhaps after the death of the Deathless Ones. As soon as that clarity dawned, the mists lifted to reveal a sharp cliff, impossibly smooth, extending higher than she could see. Faint reflections whirled on its surface and Persephone squinted at them. Grass waving on green meadows, a calm sea dotted with islands under a blue sky, then the passing sun and moon, and other heavenly bodies in a riot of colors. She saw more stars than she’d ever thought possible turning about one another, then a hand grasping at skin, lovers pulling each other closer. The images flashed so quickly that she could barely discern them. She saw herself, staring at her own reflection on the cliff face, her brow knitted. Beside her was an opening in the rock, wide and deep. Had she not seen it before? Or had it appeared suddenly and soundlessly?

This was undoubtedly the Cave of the Moirai. When the gods prayed, they would do so to the ones who dwelled here. Persephone peered around its edge and inside. Within, the voices of three women hummed, the song drifting toward her, echoing through the chamber. It was the same lullaby sung by Iasion, by her mother, by Charon, across the ages to where she stood. She swayed, mesmerized, their voices blending with the voices of everyone she had ever known. They stopped.

“It won’t do to stand there,” a reedy voice echoed, calling out to her.

“No, no it won’t,” a richer voice chimed in.

“She’ll stay without as long as she needs.” The last voice was lower.

Persephone took one step forward.

“There, you see?” the last voice said.

She took a deep breath and another step, walking toward the warm glow of a single oil lamp. The floor was damp and the cold seeped in through her soles. The old song resumed. Mud started to weigh down the edges of her peplos and her sandals stuck to the floor.

She reached out for the side of the cave, but the closer her fingers moved to its surface, the further it receded. She felt dizzy, her eyes deceiving her, and pulled her hand back, trudging forward toward the flickering flame. Shrouded women came into view, their faces obscured by darkness, their hands working quickly. One held a drop spindle and sent it spinning as her fingers nimbly twisted the black felt into thread.

“Greetings, Kindly Ones,” she said, dipping into a low curtsy.

“So formal, little one…” said Clotho, the woman with the spindle. The wool felt she twisted in her hands was so dark and fine it was nearly invisible.

“She is only showing respect,” Lachesis said, pulling the thread from Clotho’s fingers as it was formed. Aquamarine, bolder than any dye, flooded through the newly formed thread as she determined its length.

“The Theoi have no respect for
ananke
. Including this one.” Atropos snipped the measured piece and twisted the end to keep it from unraveling. “If she did, she would not be here.”

Persephone swallowed. “I… I respect
ananke
.”

“Do you now…” Clotho said. “Even if it meant the end of the cosmos itself? Even if all you loved ceased to be and everyone you knew turned to ash?”

Her lip trembled. She had no answer.

Lachesis smiled and measured a new thread, this one emerald green. “Don’t worry, little one. None of your kind can answer those questions honestly.”

Persephone recalled Aidoneus’s revelation that coming and going at will from the Underworld was not possible, thanks to her new role in the world above. She expelled a tense sigh. “What am I?”

The three paused and glanced at each other. “It is not often we hear that question.”

“Because most think they know.”

“She knows too, but there are many answers for her.” The spindle spun again and more thread passed between their hands.

“The Destroyer.”

“The Maiden.”

“The Queen.”

“A mother…” Lachesis’s voice said. “You are mother to many, little one.”

“And mother to none.”

Persephone shifted uncomfortably. Of course they already knew what her most pressing question would be. “Mother to many?”

“Half the year, when you nourish, half the year when you comfort.”

“But the little threads are in your care, always.”

“And what about my husband?”

Atropos looked to Clotho. “The seeds cannot return to the earth without them.”

“Either of us?” Persephone asked.

“Your husband. And you. You do not play your role alone.”

“He is your equal and counterpart. In this you saw the true nature of the cosmos.”

“Together you are mother and father. Rulers of the eternal realm, male and female.”

“The seeds of the earth are passed from him into your care.”

“It was ever to be that way.”

“Maiden no more, yet you are the Maiden when you walk the Earth. The little threads still call you Kore—”

“They are too frightened by my real name,” Persephone said. “They dare not call on She Who Destroys the Light.” Mother to many. Mother to none. Together you are mother and father. She swallowed hard, afraid of what they would say to so direct a question, but she needed an answer. “Will I ever give Aidoneus a son?”

“The earth is your womb, Aristi Chthonia.”

“But as for your own hystera…”

“…the gift and sacrifice of fertility is yours to share with Hades…”

“The King and the kingdom.”

“For just as the earth cannot harvest without your mother…”

“…it cannot replenish without the sacred union of Aidoneus and Persephone, or your journey between this world and the world above…”

“…and for so long as the seed rises to the earth to spring forth as new life…”

“…that new life cannot take root within you.”

Persephone could say nothing. Her head tilted forward and she felt tears fall onto the damp ground. She wept immovably, silently. She felt the black sorrow— the finality— wrapping itself around her heart, but she refused to give in. There was no room for sympathetic appeal of any kind here, least of all that achieved by sobbing. For all their implacability as governors over the dead, Hades and Persephone were as reeds bending in the wind compared to the Fates. She knew this. Still, the tears fell.