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“Have you ever witnessed a surface war, Lady Persephone?”
Lord Ares is but the latest Olympian to come find her, to gawk at the wayward daughter brought home in shackles formed of love and duty. For the first week of her stay, it was often possible to retreat to her chambers, to cite acclimatization as a reason for rest. But here, on the eve of the feast Lord Dionysus is more than thrilled to host in her honor, Persephone cannot escape her relatives, much as she may wish to. Already the strain of smiling through every thinly-veiled insult aimed at her Chthonic family is weighing on her.
“I can’t say that I have, Lord Ares,” Persephone says, her tone measured, polite. Every word she’s spoken since ascending to Olympus seems to have been uttered in that careful tone. “Our domains have little in common, I’m afraid.”
“On the contrary,” Ares denies, stepping closer. “I have found that blood is a most excellent fertilizer, my Lady. Many of my former battlefields have grown lush and green in the wake of war.”
“In its wake,” Persephone points out, “not in its thick.”
Ares shrugs, as though it is a trifle, as though her opinion on the matter is worth less than his own. Blood and Darkness, but she did not miss Olympus. “Regardless, I believe you would find the heat of battle to your liking.”
He is far too close, and she cannot escape the heavy scent of copper and smoke and petrichor. “Pray tell, Lord Ares, how so?”
“Many of my wars are waged under the guise of Lady Night herself,” Ares says, too-keen eyes following the line of her tensing shoulders. “And I must often confer with my dear Lord Death on matters regarding his domain, as well. The surface realm provides ample opportunity for such a rendezvous.”
Ah. So that is why he is so insistent on this.
“If there is a place where I belong in this world, it must be somewhere between heaven and hell,” Persephone murmurs, the sentiment ringing ever true. “I believe you may be correct after all, Lord Ares. I should see for myself the reason so much of Gaia’s soil becomes arable in the aftermath of your influence.”
Ares’ smile is kind in its viciousness. “It shall be so, Lady Persephone.”
War is… loud.
She does not mean the skirmish itself, though that, too, is loud. She means the trampling of grass, the uprooting of flowers, the burning of trees. The end of lives, so many lives, growth cut short by the sharp edge of a blade. Her domain dies on the battlefield, again and again and again.
Lord Ares, beside her, is vibrant.
He thrives where she wilts, bloodlust and violence and death his sustenance and her inanition. War and Verdure do not – cannot – coexist.
Yet even here, growth has its place.
Nothing matures a youth quite like war, after all.
Persephone clings to that growth, the tiniest of sprouts in an otherwise barren field, and prays the fighting will cease soon. She will not last long here.
“Ah, my apologies, Lady Persephone,” Ares says, and the air becomes just a bit less stifling, his heavy aura reigned in. “I forget, how my power amplifies when I am near its source.”
Of course. In times of war, Ares is capable of ruling over all mortalkind, his influence greater than that of any other deity – yet in times of peace, he is barely more powerful than a demigod. Great heights, and the great depths that inevitably follow, are both his blessing and his curse.
“It’s fascinating,” Persephone breathes, pained and awed in equal measure. “My own power has always remained steady, unchanging, but yours… yours fluctuates like the tides. I’ve never observed anything quite like it.”
“Please do not relay that sentiment as such to Lord Uncle Poseidon. He may just believe the tides of his oceans have some manner of dominion over my might.”
His tone is grave, but his eyes dance with mirth, and she laughs, surprised. “Lord War has quips,” she observes, meeting his infectious grin with an unfettered smile of her own. “I’m not sure anyone in the Underworld would believe me if I told them.”
“Neither would most on Olympus, I’d wager,” Ares drawls, eyes flicking back to the battle, his battle, and the sword seems to appear in his hand reflexively. “Though I cordially invite you to test your theory, Lady Persephone. I’m certain Lady Nyx would be delighted to perceive you, and I… well, I have a war to fight.”
He graces her with a shallow bow before he rushes into the carnage, and Persephone wanders, further than she perhaps should, until she comes upon a quiet meadow far removed from the horrors of war.
The cyclamen are in bloom.
“Separation and lasting love,” Persephone whispers, picking one of the flowers and holding it out to the night sky. “Fitting, don’t you think, Nyx?”
Night is silent, but her caress will forever feel like home.
She is not entirely sure how long she remains in that meadow, but when Ares comes to find her, he does not come alone.
“Thanatos,” Persephone smiles, and she embraces him as she cannot embrace her son. “It’s good to see you.”
Thanatos rests a cold hand on the small of her back for but a moment, ever respectful, ever reserved. “It is good to see you as well, Queen Persephone.”
He looks exactly as he has since the dawn of time, and Persephone takes comfort in the familiarity of him. “How have you been? Has anything happened since I left? Are Hades and Zagreus behaving themselves?”
Thanatos’ eyes shift to Ares, who leans against the trunk of a nearby tree, cleaning the blood off his blade with a practiced hand. “Apologies, my Queen, but I do not have much time,” he says, his words carefully measured in the presence of an Olympian. “Although I am able to tell you that Cerberus is doing very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Persephone says, that simple phrase more soothing than anything else he could have offered. “Do give everyone my regards when you return. And don’t let Hades work you too hard!”
“I only ever work as hard as I need to,” Thanatos says, and Persephone cannot tell if he jests or not. “By your leave, Queen Persephone.”
He bows low at her answering nod, and then, to her surprise, does not shift away. Instead, he joins Ares at the tree some paces south, and they speak in hushed voices, the words clearly not meant for her ears. The brief conversation culminates in Ares pressing a lingering kiss to the back of Thanatos’ hand – a gesture Persephone is almost certain would not have been nearly as chaste had she not been present – before Death heeds the call of souls and vanishes into the night.
Persephone raises a knowing eyebrow at Ares, who simply shrugs.
“Perhaps we of Olympus ought not consort with those of a Chthonic nature,” he hums, amused, “but then it was inevitable, that War would come to care for Death. You must understand.”
She does understand, far better than most. “Perhaps you should visit the Underworld when next I descend, Lord Ares. You would be most welcome.”
She wonders how many have witnessed an expression quite so gentle overtake the face of War.
“I would be honored.”
The aftermath of war is breathtaking.
Most would disagree with her, she knows. It does make for an ugly sight; the former battlefield is saturated with blood, strewn with broken weapons, covered in a layer of soot and ash. The land appears dead, desolate, arid, a monument to the horrors of war left here by the Fates to warn mankind. Surely nothing could ever take root here again.
Yet Persephone knows better. A year from now, nature will have reclaimed every inch of this place, she can feel it. Already, the spilled blood is feeding the grass, the flowers, the trees. What survived will thrive, and what perished will nourish new life. It is a cycle as certain as that of Helios and Selene.
War and Verdure do not – cannot – coexist, yet Verdure thrives in the wake of War. And perhaps, Persephone thinks, War is exactly what will keep Verdure from wilting.
After all, War is inevitable, and Verdure is nothing if not stubborn.
And they will flourish.
Together.