Work Text:
1.
She does not remember how it began.
She does not know her own name for certain, but she knows her mother's. Demeter pulls her close every time they walk too close to the sea or they stand in open fields bared to the skies. There is sorrow and love in her mother's eyes every time she looks at her, a softening in the hard set of her brow that no one else ever sees.
Demeter reigns over the land, the grain and the flowers. Nature yields to her touch, the life-bearer and life-giver. She is revered and loved in equal measure, her worship seen in the capacity of maternal devotion. Her daughter is nothing like her; her daughter is a mystery, in the way that all young girls are, wild and free, unafraid of the world and all that's in it. They are young and brave and fearless, until they are taught fear at the hands of men.
She does not remember this either. All she remembers is that one moment the sun is warm on her skin, and the next, it is not. Years later, some will say that she was kidnapped, raped, dragged down into the depths from where she could never return on her own. She doesn't know if it's true, but this is still a tragedy; maybe there's a god, a man who feels entitled to her. Years later, some will say it was her choice, but when the sound of her mother's screams echo across the land and her answering cry tears through the ground, it does not feel like her choice anymore. Winter ravages the earth and the people cower in terror, offering sacrifices to the grieving mother; but the land remains barren and empty, bereft of life.
The Underworld is cold and unfamiliar, but inexplicably, it feels more like home than anywhere else she's ever been. It's still a tragedy, but what she does next is what makes the story less tragic. She only remembers the screaming; but by the time she finds her voice again, her hands shaped into something a little more solid than before, they look at her in reverence and in fear. They call her a name that is now lost to time, (pe-re-swapersephassaphersephassa) and she does not know if it is her name but it feels close enough so she smiles, a smile full of teeth and blood and pomegranate juice, and welcomes their worship. The next time she sees her mother, a circlet of bones adorning her fair locks and shadows stitched into the seams of her ceremonial gown, she feels a trepidation somewhere inside her at the look on her mother’s face, but it soon passes. Demeter smiles, the same mix of sorrow and undying love, and calls her daughter, beloved, and spring bursts into being.
Now, they are equals— or as close as mothers and daughters can be, anyway. They are the Wanasso, the Two Queens, and men tremble in the wake of their footsteps.
She returns soon to her home beneath the world above, her mother’s hands unwillingly separating from hers, and this time she walks in with her head held high, and the dead rise to greet their Queen.
2.
Sometimes, she dreams.
She's still not quite set on her name, still testing out the edges of Despoina, the sharp taste of Nestis, the power of Praxidike. They're not wrong, but they don't feel quite right either. It's a work in progress, much like her new kingdom; the spirits of the newly deceased serve her faithfully, but the ancient dead and their gods are less accommodating. She raises mountains from bare land, shapes castles from stone and silt, carves a throne from obsidian and ruby. She calls to the Underworld, and it calls back to her. She's done much, but she's not quite as happy as she would like to be.
Sometimes at night, she dreams of a throne beside her own, cold hands around hers, hidden smiles and gardens filled with life in a dead world. When she wakes, she tries to hold on to these fragments of a life that's not quite hers, but they slip away like sand through her fingers.
She's with Demeter when it happens, the Two Queens dining together in the summer light, mother and daughter together once again like they'd never been apart. The world is changing around them, ephemeral and ever-mortal, but they are immune to it— or so they think. A biting chill blasts through the Eleusinian temple, and when they look up, three women stand near the gold engraved doors.
Mother. Maiden. Crone.
Tis Moirai.
The Fates.
In one echoing voice, they speak of changing times and changing seasons. A new era is coming, one where men hold the sword, the pen, and the chain. Demeter is unaffected and thus unafraid, but the Crone points to her daughter and in a shrill, shrieking voice says, she shall be taken from you again. She will be his wife, his queen, and shall reign beside him, now and forevermore. She will bow to him, and surrender her kingdom to him who has many names and receives many guests.
Demeter now rises in fury. She raises a hand, and the Fates meld into one, a horrifying togetherness. They scream as they're ripped from this plane, but she simply sits there, her hands numb. Her mother rushes towards her, but it's too late— as it always was, as it always will be— and there's a red string around her finger, binding her to her future husband, her fate. We are gods, her mother rages, the earth trembling in the wake of her wrath, we cannot be subject to this.
She returns to the Underworld soon. She cannot bear the sound of her mother's grief and anger any longer, so she escapes back to the dead silence of her home. She sits by the riverbank of the Styx, her hands lazily stirring the waters that would've burned mortals, and she thinks. In this story, in this time, she does not know captivity yet; she does not yet know what she must fear. She thinks that it would not be so bad to have someone to hold. Despite everything, she is lonely— she has a kingdom, she has her mother, but she longs for an equal. She is still a child, and children forget easily. She has forgotten how she came to be here, only that she is, and she is Queen, and surely there are none who can take that from her.
Beside her on the soil of the shoreline, a flower blooms to life. She is surprised, and pleased. It is not often that the Underworld yields to her touch in this way: she finds it easier to move mountains than to make gardens grow. Save for the one that blooms in her palace grounds, there are no gardens, no flowers in the Underworld— but she has not given up on trying.
The waters stir, and the land suddenly seems to gain a sentience– only for a brief, passing moment, the blink of a human eye. But she is not human, and so she feels it, and she asks, Who are you?
I am Hades, the land answers. Who are you?
The rest of it is a dark, creeping fog: she does not remember if she answered, or if she did, she does not remember what she said. But as they move— slowly, then all at once— into the new age, she hopes that someone was listening, that someone will remember.
3.
In this lifetime, they call her Kore.
She does not know much for certain, but she knows deep down that this is not her name. At least, not exactly. Still, when the nymphs call her friend, Kore, lovely, she laughs with delight and follows them into the woods, the grasslands and the rivers. In this lifetime, she remembers toddling about soft, brown earth on the chubby legs of a child, being lifted and held in the warm embrace of her mother's arms. Demeter takes stronger measures this time around,holds her daughter safe in forest-palaces no man or god can reach. This time, Demeter vows when she thinks Kore isn't listening, I will not let her go.
Her father is Zeus, king of the gods and ruler of the skies. She does not know much about him, only that her mother hates him, and he is not to be trusted. She has no desire to mingle with the rest of Olympus anyway, so she stays away from her father and his council. The rest of her mother's rules, however, are fair game. She dances around the edges of her mother's lands, the world beyond just out of reach. This is paradise, or so they all tell her, but she desires freedom above all else. Every now and then, she slips out of the confines of her home, away from the prying eyes of nymphs and dryads—she is never alone, but somehow always lonely— towards a dream she can't quite remember but can't forget either.
In her dreams, she's wearing a crown— not of flowers, but of bones— and there are people, flickering in and out of sight, ghostly and glowing, singing her name in praise. In her dreams, she sits upon a throne of obsidian and sapphire, all the riches of the mortal and immortal world at her feet. In her dreams, there’s a red string tying her to her fate, a husband she cannot begin to even imagine.
She’s done her research, from what little she can find: she talks to the oldest nymphs, who answer hesitatingly; she scours the library in her mother’s palace, when she is gone. The place she sees in her dreams seems like the Underworld, the Land of the Dead. Which is impossible, given that she’s never been there; how could she possibly know what it looks like? And the next impossibility: her dreams tell her she ruled over those lands– but how could she, when the Underworld already had a king of its own?
Kore, at first, does not know what his name is. Her mother refuses to speak about her divine brethren to her daughter, and nymphs refuse to say his name. They call him by epithets: Aïdoneus, Pluton, Agesilaos. Then, one day, she happens upon a scripture that makes a single mention of his name, his true name:
Hades
They say it’s bad luck to say it out loud, because if he heard you, you were in big trouble. Everyone feared the gods of the Underworld: Thanatos, Hecate, Erebus. But even among them, Hades loomed large, a figure little known even to his brothers and sisters who were the highest gods of the Pantheon. They called him wise, hospitable; never dangerous, but it seemed implicit in the way they spoke about him. He kept to himself, the gates to his kingdom guarded by a fierce, monstrous three-headed dog, which laid at the shores of the River Styx. Kore reads about this in a book she finds tucked away in the darkest corners of the library; on one of the pages, there is a painting of the god of the dead. It is blurry, indistinct, but she traces the outline of his figure with a curious, trembling finger and she thinks that there’s something about him that feels familiar, even though she has never met him.
The thought of him consumes her, just like her dreams do; day and night, he haunts her, this god of whom she knows nothing about, whom Demeter seems to dislike but not hate in the way she loathes Zeus. One day, at the edges of the fields of her home, laying down in a shaded grove with a half-plucked rose in her hand in a rare moment of solitude, she whispers his name.
Hades
The world, for the briefest of seconds, shifts around her. A mortal would have missed it, but she is not a mortal and so she feels it– feels him— in the air. Kore startles upright, but before she can say or do anything, the feeling is gone, and so is any trace of the god of the dead— if he had been there at all in the first place.
As the days pass, she grows unsure of what she thought she felt in the grove, grows ever more certain that it was only just a dream.
Until, one day, everything changes.
At first, it begins like a day like any other. Kore is laughing, swept out of her rooms by giggling nymphs as they tend to her mother's fields and gardens. They are together, close as can ever be, never apart except for a moment.
But that moment is all it takes.
This time, she will remember. She feels the horror awake in her at the sight of the earth cracking open at her feet, at the chariot painted in black with echoes of the night sky, at the rider who stood fearsome upon it, his face cloaked by a helmet and his hands on the reins of his roaring steeds. There's a brief moment of hesitation between the two of them, one where his hands are still on the reins of the chariot and she forgets to scream for her mother; but the moment soon passes and he roughly pulls her onto the cold marble of the chariot, his hands like ice on hers, knocking unneeded breath out of her lungs. Before she can utter a sound, the ground opens up again and they descend into it, her and her kidnapper, with no nymphs to bear witness and no mother to save her.
Kore prays her mother will find her in time.
She fears she will not.
She turns to the stern-faced countenance of her abductor; in a rare moment of clarity, she knows three things with absolute certainty: one, this is Hades, King of the Underworld and God of the Dead. Two, he, for some inexplicable reason, was kidnapping her. Three, she wasn't going to go down without a fight.
So fight she does, with every ounce of breath in her body. She screams, and shouts, clawing at him. He does not respond, but something seems to change in him, an almost… confusion, to the set of his shoulders. When they finally, finally touch ground somewhere in the depths of the Underworld, she leaps off the chariot— ignoring desperately something in her that says home— and continues to berate him, loudly and irately, while he simply stands there, something dawning behind his eyes.
How dare you, she rages, and he says nothing.
Do you know who my mother is, she yells and he raises an eyebrow in something that looks akin to amusement.
Do you know who I am, she asks, furious, and finally, he responds.
Yes, says the God of the Dead, something like hope curling in his eyes.
You are Persephone.
4.
Persephone.
That name awakens something in her, something ancient– something wild.
It is like the ringing of bells at the homecoming of warriors, or their funerals; it brings back memories of the cold, of the dark and a light that burns within it. Above all else, it is familiar, sits right on her tongue and under her skin unlike anything else in the world. It is soft, it is sharp, it is a myriad of complexities; it is not exactly what she thinks she remembers, but it is her, in a way that nothing else is.
When her head stops spinning, she looks up at the god who kidnapped her, brought her here to this unfamiliar-yet-familiar place, told her who she was with a certainty that even she had not possessed. Hades has taken off his helm, revealing chiselled features and ice-blue eyes, and an impossibly sheepish look on his face. I realize, he says, something like regret in his eyes, this might not have been the best way to introduce myself to you.
He tells her about the day he first saw her from afar, in the grove where she first spoke his name. He tells her about how the sight of her, sunkissed and divine, and how it felt like it was the only thing in the world that was right and familiar. He then tells us about how he made the mistake of approaching her father, Zeus, who in his capriciousness advised his brother to follow his own lead and kidnap his bride-to-be, since her mother never would've approved the marriage.
I apologise for that, nonetheless, Hades says, looking frustrated with himself, I should've known better—
Wait, wait, wait, says Kore (Persephone?) Marriage? You want to marry me?
Now, Hades looks truly discomfited. He scratches the back of his neck, almost endearing in his actions as he tries to play it off. I was– I am… captivated by you. I would like to get to know you better.
I want to go home to my mother. Even as she speaks the words, they feel hollow to her. This, as terrifying as it might be, was her only chance to finally see the world beyond her mother's domain, to taste the freedom she'd desired for so long.
Give me a chance, he pleads, tinges of desperation in his voice. You know this– us, you being here– this is right in a way nothing else has been. You're the only one who sees me, I know it.
Hades pauses, regaining his composure. But I understand if you want to leave. He moves to put his helmet back on, holding out his hand for her to take, to get on the chariot once more. I apologise for the misunderstanding; I'll take you home at once, he says, voice cold and unfeeling.
Wait. Kore is as surprised as he is when the words fall from her mouth, when she says, I don't want to leave just yet. Faced with the prospect of the rest of eternity safely ensconced within the safety of her mother's palace, with nothing but dreams of a world beyond to keep her company, she finds that she doesn't actually want to hurry back quite so soon.
I suppose, she says haltingly, it wouldn't be terrible to stay for just a bit longer. Not because of the hurt in his eyes, she tells herself; not because she recognized the loneliness in his voice when he spoke of her seeing him in a way that no one else could. But because, as Kore tells him and herself, she wants to learn more about his kingdom, which she thinks is the one she's been seeing in her dreams. She hasn't quite forgiven him, she insists, but he can earn it, if he's ready to work for it.
His eyes light up, and they both try to ignore the fluttering in their hearts when she takes his hand and gets up on the chariot. I am, he says, determined, flicking the reins gently as he steers the horses towards the onyx-laid palace shining in the distance.
I believe, he tells her as they fly over the rivers and peaks of the Underworld, that this was your kingdom once.
She listens, rapt with attention as he tells her about the changing of times and how the gods changed with them, how they were created and transformed by the beliefs of mortals, how a god who never existed a hundred years ago could rule a kingdom that belonged to a goddess who'd been given a new role by the changing systems of power.
So, Kore says, almost teasingly, if this was my kingdom once, does that mean you're going to give it back to me now?
Hades grins, starbright, his dark hair windswept and the shadows on his face falling away. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement.
She tries, desperately, to ignore the way her heartbeat skips when he smiles. She tries to ignore a lot of things over the next few months she spends in the Underworld, like the way he grabs her hand as he takes her around the kingdom, trying to answer the mystery of who she was before; the way he puts a blanket around her shoulders when she falls asleep in the magnificent library after a long day of reading through scrolls and scriptures;
The way his eyes shine when she discovers the blooming garden in the backyards of his palace, filled with jewel-like fruits and the most fragrant of flowers; the way he turns his head away to hide a hopeful smile when they meet his subjects and they ask him if she is his Queen. She tries to ignore the way everything feels so right around him in a way nothing ever has before. She loves her mother and she loves the nymphs and naiads and dryads of her home but when she catches him laughing at one of her jokes in the light of the torches of his throne room, his royal head thrown back and his shoulders shaking, she feels something inside her bloom, like the petals of a rose unfurling at the first touch of spring. Most of all, Kore tries to ignore the red string that she sees out of the corner of her eye, binding them together by destiny. She thinks Hades sees it too sometimes, when they're talking and he's suddenly distracted looking down at his hands, then hers. He tries to ignore it too, but she sees the way he looks at her when he thinks she isn't looking.
So when Hermes comes to them one day, months later, when Hades is on his throne and Kore is standing beside him, laughing at something he's said, it's a difficult decision to make. The messenger god is nervous, despite his obvious attempts at charisma and humor, despite the fact that he is close to both of them– he knows that Hades will not be swayed to give back his prize. But what he doesn't know is that this is her choice, and it is ultimately Hades who reminds her of the death her mother had wrought upon the mortal world, the destruction they'd tried so hard to ignore in their own private paradise. But he refuses to look in her eyes when he says it, his face dark and voice unsteady and there's a certain devastation in the set of his shoulders when he says, you belong to the world above now, no matter what you were before— you deserve better than this dark and dreary kingdom.
A soft exhalation— You deserve the sun.
That's my choice, Kore insists, but she knows even then that she has to return; despite everything, she does love her mother, and she has missed her very much. And she loves the world and all its people enough to try and save them from her mother's wrath and grief. But she grabs Hades’ hands as he turns away, forcing him to look at her, fierce and bright. I'll fight my way back to you. Just you wait and see.
He doesn't respond, but there's something almost like hope in his eyes when he brings her hand to his lips. She bids goodbye to all the friends she has made in her time here, plants one last flower in their garden behind the palace. She speaks to Hermes, who she has known for a long time, her only friend from the outside world back in the days of her confinement in her mother's palace. He sees the way they look at each other, but he tells her that nothing can be done. You are the daughter of Demeter, goddess of life, he says, something like sorrow in his eyes, and he is the king of the dead. It cannot be. In her heart, Kore does not agree with him, but says nothing. They decide to meet at daybreak on the shores of the Styx, to commence their return to what was once her home. Hades is nowhere to be found all throughout the day, and she is angry as she paces in her room, vines curling around the walls and furniture as her anger builds.
Finally, just before dawn, she hears a knock at the door. Furious, she marches over and throws it open, intending to give Hades an earful. But the sight of him stops her: his hair is messy and his clothes rumpled, completely unlike him; his face is unusually pale, and there is an almost feverish light in her eyes as he holds out a pomegranate to her. I know you deserve better than this– than me, but I'm daring to ask you to choose me anyway, he says, breathless, the words falling out one after another. Go home to your mother, Persephone; but do not be upset. Remember that as my queen— and here he stumbles, but pushes on, if you so choose to be, you will be among the highest of the gods. You will be the queen of everything, one day.
The seeds of this pomegranate will let you return here. She will not be able to keep you there, because when you consume the food of the Underworld, you are bound to it. He pauses, seeing the unsurety in her. It will not be permanent. You are a goddess; it will wear off eventually.
But not for a long time?
No, he answers, you'll be bound here for centuries, atleast. I understand if you do not want to, he says, attempting to reassure her, you do not have to— I will always love you, no matter what, and we can find some other way—
Wait, she says, a grin growing on her face, you love me?
Hades– impossibly– blushes, but remains resolute. I do. But you don't have to say it back, or—
Kore grabs him, and kisses him.
It is like a thousand gardens blooming all at once, like the sun breaking out over the mountains after a dark and lonely night; it is like falling in love. When they separate, the pomegranate is in her hands. I love you too, she promises, but I have to be with my mother. Hades nods in understanding, though there is sorrow in his steady countenance. It is replaced by surprise when she breaks open the pomegranate, the juice running red down her hands, and picks out six seeds. Six seeds, she says, holding them out to him, for six months of the year with you. And six months with my mother.
Do you really think it'll work? Hades asks, skeptic, but something like hope shining in his eyes.
If it doesn't, Persephone says, her smile wild and bright, we'll figure something else out.
When they go down to the river together to meet Hermes, he knows what they've done. He doesn't say anything there, only bows to Hades, but whispers to her as they leave, you've changed.
I have, she agrees.
+1
Her name is Persephone.
This, she knows for certain. Not because she found it written on old tablets in old temples; not because others say that it is. It is her name because this time, she chooses it. The mortals, in their worship of her, call her by many names: Pradixike, Nestis, Despoina— she even keeps Kore, in memory of the girl she used to be— because it is not a bad thing to be young and bold and unafraid.
When she returns to the world above with Hermes beside her, to the assembled council of gods, Demeter cries out in relief and joy, draws her daughter to the side and promises her that she would do all she could to free her from the binds of the Underworld. Persephone says nothing, and the relief in her mother’s eyes slowly fades away as she realizes what has transpired. At first she is angry; what mother wouldn't be? Her daughter has returned from the Underworld, but pomegranate juice stains her hands like blood, and she wears a stranger’s smile. But in time, she recognizes the fire in Persephone’s eyes, and she knows there is no backing down now. So she agrees, begrudgingly, to the arrangement— six months with her, and six months with Hades. Zeus tries to talk to the both of them, but they have no time for him; they have made their peace with his actions, and no matter the hurt it caused then, Demeter has her daughter now, and Persephone has Hades.
It takes a few months of distance and awkwardness, but as they are having dinner one night, Demeter calls her Persephone for the first time, and the ice in the air slowly begins to melt. She is still not completely at ease with who her daughter has become— maybe she never was, not even then— but one thing has remained certain and constant throughout the eons: she loves her daughter. And Persephone loves her mother enough to stay, despite everything and because of it, and that is enough for them to try.
In the meantime, when she still walks the mortal world, she takes on a responsibility she shoulders with pride: she goes to all the people, and she guides them— especially the women, because she knows what it’s like to have your story written out for you, and gain the power to change the ending. She goes to the strong and the weak, the daughters and the mothers and the sisters, to those who have found comfort in the arms of a lover and those who are searching for something else. To the ones who are satisfied with the little things in life, and those who dream of greater and grander things. She walks with them, wipes away their tears and shares in their joys and sorrows. She saves a few, and those who she cannot— well, when she sees them again, ghostly and flickering, she reminds them that it is not yet over as she tells them about the Lethe.
Every time she returns to her home in the Underworld, her mother’s hands unwillingly separating from hers, the first echoes of the winter frost settling across the world, her husband is there at the gates, waiting for her. Hades holds a torch and a flower from her garden in his hands, wearing his finest robes and a grin on his face that could light up every inch of the dreary dark. There is laughter and incessant chatter on the way to their palace; neither of them are lonely anymore as they sit hand in hand upon their magnificent thrones.
The binding of the pomegranate seeds soon fades away, but she still keeps to the six month division. The mortal world and her kingdom need her in equal measure, and she is determined to do her best for the denizens of both realms. But sometimes, every couple of years, she finds herself missing her husband a little too much, and so she packs her things, bids her mother goodbye, and sets off early to her home. The mouth of the Underworld closes up behind her, a cold wind in her wake, and she walks the road alone. Soon, though, she reaches the palace, and she knocks on the gilded door of his office. She hears Cerberus barking in delight, the echo ringing thricefold across the palace and behind it, she hears Hades’ footsteps light and quick on the marble floors, feels his joy even before he opens the doors and lifts her up and spins her around.
Persephone smiles.
She is home.