“Of course,” I answer, though we are past the usual time. My heart beats quickly, remembering the last time she offered and how my magic and powers has dwindled to nearly nonexistent. “I thought you had planted these beds already,” I mention as I pick up a pot and look inside at the seeds it holds. “Did something go wrong?” I play naive, but I am no fool. She’s brought death in as many ways as she can for all to see her fury.
My mother purses her lips, moving to the center of the bed. “I was in a state when it was discovered you were missing,” she says guiltily. “I raged throughout Olympus and could not stop. This garden bed was an unfortunate victim.”
I reach over and place my hand on hers in comfort. She takes it and squeezes before letting me go again.
“But,” she says confidently. “We can plant again.”
“Yes,” I agree. “That is true. A garden can always be planted again.” My throat is tight with any response that I could offer regarding her state and my disappearance. I walk on eggshells around her.
We’re quiet for a little while, rearranging the pots, choosing seeds, and dropping them in neat rows throughout the bed. The act is soothing. Healing in so many ways. My intention with every seed is to bring life, abundance, and prosperity to all who need it. Warmth spreads through my chest as the garden grows. I imagine the mortals who suffered for my king’s desperate actions to have me. They are innocent and I wish for the growth here to show in their own gardens. As above, so below. I wish to make them whole again, without parting from what I’ve gained.
“Are you thinking the same of the mortal realm?” I question, straightening my shoulders and shading my eyes.
My mother doesn’t look at me. She merely whispers, “The mortal realm can be replanted again. It is resilient.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, of course.” She’s still careful not to meet my eyes. Her pain is evident. The loss echoing in her gaze. As if I can feel what she suffered. The loss is immense. “Much of it is a garden, Persephone. It is only a matter of waiting for new growth.”
“When will that come?” I question.
“When my heart is healed,” she answers quickly. It’s so very evident that she placed a spell. The damage will only stop when she no longer feels the agony. But every spell can be broken, though not every pain can be healed. And my mother’s pain I fear will only worsen when I tell her the truth. When I return to him, her bitterness may turn to death for the innocent.
“He will pay for what he did to you,” she murmurs.
“Mother,” I start, my eyes growing wide. “I don’t wish for?—”
“It is not my wish, my sweet girl. It is what I need to heal.”
“What about the mortals themselves?” Quickly, to keep myself busy, I take up another pot and tip some seeds into my palm. They’re small, but will burst with life. They’ll become so much more than they appear to be right now. “Will they be able to start again?”
“In time.”
I stare at her for a moment, not recognizing her but acknowledging she now knows pain she’s never known before. She will see reason. My father will put an end to this soon. He must.
“In how much time?” Perhaps she will be more willing to speak when we are not looking at each other, so I keep my focus on the seeds. “I saw things in the Underworld that made me wonder about the mortal realm.”
With concern, she stills and asks me quietly, “What kinds of things, my daughter?” It’s then I know her fear of what I had to go through. Her hand trembles and I cannot offer her comfort entirely, but I offer her the truth.
“Souls,” I say simply. “There was worry over an imbalance between the realms. If there are too many souls entering the Underworld at once?—”
“The Underworld is a vast realm,” my mother says, interrupting me gently. “If there is any kind of imbalance, it will certainly sort itself out within the Underworld.”
“What if it does not?”
She is silent.
“I wonder,” I press on, though my heart is beginning to beat hard, as if there is some danger approaching. “Because many mortals look to me as well, and if there was some comfort I could offer them, some reassurance…”
“You can offer them your presence,” my mother says, meeting my eyes at last. “Have you thought of that? It may be more useful than any words you may offer them.”
“My presence?” I question.
“Your gift. Your power,” she answers.
“Of course,” I answer in a whisper.
“We can speak more of it later, for now, please keep me company. I have missed you so,” she tells me with tears in her eyes as my own gaze blurs.
