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Persephone drags her finger along a familiar groove in the surface of her desk, a scar from a time when she still believed violence to be the only way to win her battles. Sometimes she still misses the feeling of carrying a knife in her boot. Sometimes she even misses needing to.
Calliope didn’t like violence. Of course she didn’t. Ranting about how nobody ever deserves to die for any reason was one of her favorite pastimes, and one that particularly grated on Persephone’s nerves. They’ve all killed, and many times, but Persephone’s incarnations perhaps more than most. Persephone knows full well the weight of a soul on her hands, but she has never stopped believing there are plenty of reasons a person deserves to be parted from his wretched existence.
Looking back, she can see why. The idols are drawn to people like them in some way, those who share the same struggles. Back and back and back, there have been precious few Persephones who did not fall prey to the whims of a powerful man for a time. Even with the benefit of millennia of memories, a part of her still loathes herself for ever allowing herself to be so powerless. Did she really need the soul of a god to change her fate? Pathetic.
Before she died, Persephone wouldn’t have even admitted she particularly liked Calliope. They were fighting more often than they weren’t, and they were both stubborn in their own ways. At her worst, Calliope was self-righteous and condescending, and Persephone is bitter and prideful even at the best of times.
But Calliope was honest. Painfully so. And Persephone did like that. Back and back and back, Persephone has always sought out honesty in the end. When she escaped the claws of her captors, by providence or by force of will, Persephone had no lingering taste for pretty falsehoods.
It’s at least half of why Apollo drives her insane. In truth, she hated him from the moment she met him, even before her memories had fully returned to her. Apollo loves to mope about and pretend at helplessness, pretend he has no power over the world, over the people around him, and then flash his burning rage the moment it’s convenient.
She curls her hand into a fist and knocks lightly upon her desk, remembers the hilt of a knife against her palm.
Apollo sickens her. Even more than she knows how to put into words, actually, which is saying something. It was almost dizzying to try to explain when Grace asked her. How do you explain a hatred so all-consuming in a handful of words? How do you impart eons of revulsion to a young woman of twenty-someodd years who, for a mercy, hasn’t had to experience the worst the world has to offer?
Grace is honest, too. And kind, in a way Calliope only believed she was. Or maybe wanted to be.
Persephone digs the pad of her finger into the groove in her desk. It still bothers her a little, knowing how it is when all the memories come rushing back. She keeps telling herself Grace and Calliope aren’t even really that similar, that she and the others were just…much more like their previous incarnations to begin with, that she barely even remembers all the various incarnations of the muses, and she didn’t particularly like any of them.
But there’s still the chance. Just like there would be, anyway, she supposes. That Grace will change in a way that is irreconcilable.
She needs to get rid of the portrait. That’s why she’s here. She can’t have it watching over her like this anymore, it’s driving her crazy. There is remembering, and then there is wallowing, and Persephone does not wallow.
In a better world, maybe she’d drop it off in Apollo’s tragic little hovel and let him torment himself about it. But it’s her painting, and she doesn’t want his grimy hands on it even if she’s getting rid of it. She’s already considered hanging it somewhere else in the club, but that would rather defeat the purpose. Well, that, and it hardly goes with the rest of the décor.
The sound of approaching footsteps finds her with the portrait in hand, contemplating the outline of dust left behind on the wall. Persephone is not messy by any stretch of the imagination—she started avoiding even dusting the portrait long before Calliope stopped speaking to her.
The sound of her door opening tells her who has come to visit her. No one else would dare come in without knocking. “Did you need something, Grace?”
Grace falters. “Oh. No, not really. I just, uh. But I guess you’re busy, so—“
Persephone turns to look at her, surprised by her reaction. She guesses her tone came out sharper than she realized. “You don’t have to go,” she says. She sets down the portrait and dusts off her clothes.
“Are you redecorating?” Grace tries. She’s obviously still ill at ease, but Persephone has never been skilled at lightening the mood.
“Not exactly,” says Persephone. “Just…clearing out a little space.”
“Oh,” says Grace, her eyes on the portrait. “Can I ask where you got it?”
Persephone almost laughs. “It was a gift, sort of. Calliope always had people painting her. I mean, you saw her house. She had more than she knew what to do with. I made the mistake of mentioning I liked this one, and, well.”
Grace does laugh, gently, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to. “But now you’re moving it?”
“Getting rid of it,” Persephone clarifies. “It’s been lording over my office far too long already. Look—there’s dust, of all things.”
Grace considers this for a moment. “It must be hard to get rid of something like that.”
Persephone inclines her head, contemplates the portrait. “In a way,” she says. “But in another way, it’ll be a relief not to have it staring down at me all the time.”
Grace hums, sighs. “My apartment is still, like…so full of Freddie’s things. I know I need to get rid of it. At least some of it, I mean. But…”
Persephone looks up sharply, but she focuses her gaze on the wall rather than Grace. Millennia worth of memories, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to forget what she saw down in Hades, the way Grace really would have given her power away to save her friend, if only her friend had accepted it.
It is unbecoming, to be jealous of a dead woman. Persephone would prefer to keep her true feelings hidden on this matter.
“That’s different,” she says simply. “You and Freddie were lifelong friends. You…grew around one another.”
Grace is quiet for a moment. “Is it different? Isn’t that what everyone does, when they’re close? Grow around each other?”
Persephone inhales, but no words come. She turns to look at Grace, and wishes she hadn’t. Grace’s expression is open and unguarded, sorrowful and…profoundly young.
“Not always,” says Persephone with a thin smile. “Not if they refuse to.”
Grace takes this as her cue to approach. A part of Persephone wants to recoil, like even those few steps closer are somehow too much to bear. It is only pride that compels her to stand firm.
“Still,” says Grace. Perhaps reading Persephone’s body language, she elects to sit on the table rather than draw nearer. “I think it’d be hard not to let someone you loved change you even a little bit. Even if you really, really didn’t want them to.”
Persephone looks down at the portrait again, and bites the inside of her cheek. Did Calliope change her? She’s never thought so. Back and back and back, Persephone has always been drawn to women in dire straits. Women who needed someone to save them, or women who just needed someone to help them uncover their own power. She can feel the way the previous Persephone felt for Chastity, and the Persephone before that, all the way back as far as her memories stretch. It wasn’t all that different with Calliope. Calliope needed help, and some deep, ancient part of Persephone felt certain she couldn’t have refused even if she wanted to.
Calliope went on impassioned rants about corruption and injustice. Persephone believed steadfastly that there is only so much injustice one can ever hope to correct. Calliope loved art in all its forms, effused over even the simplest expressions of creativity. Persephone thought nearly all the things Calliope gushed about were stupid and ugly, and wasn’t shy about telling her so. Calliope was messy in every sense of the word—indeed, the only way Persephone ever felt Calliope really changed her life was for the worse.
Until she was gone. And then there was that howling emptiness where she used to be.
“Hm,” says Persephone at last. “Maybe.”
“But,” says Grace, unduly encouraged, “that also means you change the people who love you. Even if it’s hard to believe.”
Persephone turns to contemplate her, suspicious, and perhaps the slightest bit amused. “Oh?” She approaches slowly, leans in languorously, and places her hands on either side of where Grace is sitting. “And do you have any proof of that?”
Grace’s tongue darts across her lips, and Persephone can feel more than hear the way her breath catches in her throat. It’s a cheap move, maybe—a way to circumvent being approached before she is ready—but her intended audience seems to appreciate it, and there is a certain thrill in the reaction she elicits.
“Well,” says Grace carefully, “you don’t want to kill me anymore. At least…I think you don’t. So. That’s—“ Their noses brush, and Grace takes in a shuddering breath. “—something.”
Persephone hadn’t really meant to kiss her. Not quite yet, at least. But she cannot resist.
She feels Grace’s fingers tugging lightly at her jacket, gently willing her near. There is another feeling, too, one that almost makes her laugh. She feels like singing.
“Sorry,” Grace breathes.
Persephone hadn’t even noticed the faint beginning of music swelling from nowhere until it stops abruptly. She does a poor job of hiding her amusement.
Grace averts her gaze, self-conscious. “Don’t laugh, I can’t control it.”
It’s cute, which she will not admit. She bites back her smile and straightens her posture. “Well, if the lady is indisposed…”
“Wait!” Grace cries without thinking, and Persephone feels her grip tighten on the jacket. “I mean…” Wide-eyed, stunned by her own actions. She lets go. “I’m not. Indisposed, I mean. Just…embarrassed. Is it weird? It never feels weird. Even though it definitely should.”
Persephone considers how to answer. What she would rather not say is that she is more accustomed to it than most. That she both loved and hated it, fought and courted it. That there were times when she felt she’d do anything for the feeling, to have truth wrung out of her before she knew it herself. That there were times when she fought against the compulsion until it made her sick. That there were times when she knew the truth would wound, and so she let it happen even when she knew it would be kinder to walk away.
That she missed the music. That the silence felt more foreign.
“It’s not weird,” she says at last. “Or, maybe you get used to it.”
“Well, it’s lucky you can actually sing,” says Grace. “It’s great being able to help people reveal their heart songs and everything, but sometimes?” She sucks in a breath through her teeth.
Persephone chuckles. “It’s good you can admit that. Calliope always said there was something beautiful in every song, whatever that means. Say whatever you want, sometimes there just isn’t.”
Grace laughs. “No, I get what she means, but… Well. Like I said, at least you can sing.”
It’s strange to glow under such common praise. Not even praise, really. Persephone can sing, that’s a fact. Still, it brings a genuine smile to her face, and she gives a little bow. “I’m pleased to see you have impeccable taste.”
Grace smiles back, bright and beautiful. “Obviously,” she says sweetly.
Persephone averts her gaze, pretending at distraction. “I really do need to get rid of this thing,” she says, in the general direction of the painting.
“Are you sure?” Grace wonders gently. “Maybe… I mean, I’d understand. If you’re…not ready yet.”
“No,” says Persephone, inclining her head to contemplate the painting one last time. “It’s well past time.”
Back and back and back, Persephone has always kept strange mementos from the people and places that held her captive. Whether she was held by force or whether she chose her cage, the end was always the same. After the previous Persephone killed Chastity’s husband, a horrible, twisted part of her still missed him for a time. Ever since the first Persephone killed Hades, she’s been fixated on regaining his throne.
Is the portrait really any different? It keeps watch over her office, reminds her of all the ways she failed, ways she wasn’t enough. Long after Calliope had moved onto her next inspiration, Persephone was left wallowing in her disapproval.
“Persephone?”
“Hm.”
“Do you, uhm. I mean…with the last Persephone. Do you remember how it started? Did she…was she planning to…?”
Persephone affords Grace a sidelong glance. “Not exactly,” she answers honestly, though she doesn’t know what prompted the question. “She had…an inkling, perhaps. But she was drawn to me because she saw my pain, and she wanted to help. It’s always been that way, as far back as I can remember. We seek out people similar to ourselves, as I mentioned.”
“Oh.” Grace picks idly at her clothes.
Persephone ducks her head in an effort to catch Grace’s eye. “Whence the sudden question, little Muse?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” says Grace, forcing a mirthless chuckle. “I was just thinking. Is it hard, when…I mean, it must be, right? Because you do lose them. And then they’re different.” Grace looks up, wide-eyed. “Right?”
“What,” Persephone teases gently, and reaches out to brush Grace’s hair from her face, “don’t tell me you’re trying to get rid of me already?”
Grace’s hand is cold against hers. She holds Persephone’s hand against her cheek and squeezes her eyes closed. “I know it probably sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” says Persephone. What she doesn’t say is that this is part of why she was so cruel to Aphrodite all those years ago, and why they have never reconciled.
This compels Grace to open her eyes. “It doesn’t?”
Persephone shakes her head. “But it’s not something you need to worry about. Not for a long, long time.” She grins sharply. “Who knows, maybe you’ll have already grown tired of me by then.”
Grace doesn’t laugh. She squeezes Persephone’s hand. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Back and back and back, Persephone has heard a lot of lines, and a lot of pretty falsehoods. Not so long ago, she’d have laughed coldly and said something like, oh, don’t try that on me, honey. I’ve heard it all a thousand times before.
But Grace is not Calliope. Grace is honest and kind, it’s true. But she is also loyal. Not to her lofty ideals, but to the people she loves.
That is something new.
At least, it’s new to Persephone.