“I’ve missed you as well,” I answer.
She smiles at me, a quick, relieved expression, then turns back to the garden bed. “What do you think of this section here, Persephone? I would like something that will be bright when it blooms.”
Later that evening, I pace in my room, trying on my pale blush flowing robe and looking at myself in the mirror. I need my father to make a decision on the mess we’re in. To offer peace to my mother while honoring the bond Hades and I have made. I do not wish to be in his position or to provoke him, but the warning from Hades makes me question everything. Almost as if I’ve gone mad.
“Provoke him?” I ask my reflection. “Do you fear his anger?”
Yes, a voice in the back of my mind answers.
I fear my father’s anger because I fear that the imbalance between the realms will last longer as a result. I fear my father’s anger because my return to the Underworld may be delayed or worse, it may never happen if the war continues to brew.
I’m not afraid of a difficult discussion. I’m not afraid of my own weaknesses. I’m not weak. I’m a queen and goddess. I am simply aware that much of my fate rests in his hands.
I slip on a gown in deep green in favor of my dressing robes. It’s a simple silk piece but elegant. It is not the color of the Underworld, nor is it the color of Olympus. It’s the shade of evergreens in the forest, standing firm throughout the seasons. It’s the greenery at twilight in the summer. It’s the color of growth and renewal.
A few moments before I am to meet my father, I leave my rooms. My mother has gone to her own rooms. I’ve sent Beatrice to rest as well. In the hall, I hold my head high. The cool breeze is soothing even though the skies are a dark burdened gray. I don’t need anyone, mother or servant, god or mortal, to walk with me. As a queen, I can accompany myself. As a goddess, I am powerful in my own right.
My father waits for me in an opulent hall with gilded features on carved marble. The walls are draped with fine fabrics in neutral colors, and low lamps are lit around the room. Zeus, god of thunder, god of gods, king of Olympus, and my father, sits in a regal throne at one end, but rises to his feet when I enter. His shoulders are broad and his posture brooding.
“My daughter.” He comes to me with a soft smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes, his arms open wide to embrace me. I go to him and return his demeanor. He doesn’t hold me as tightly as my mother did. It is not a desperate embrace. My father holds me as if we have an audience.
Do we? Knowing Olympus and the games my father’s played before, we may. There are many eyes who watch because he commands it so.
When he releases me, I covertly glance around, but there’s no one else in the room. This is to be a private conversation.
“Come. Sit with me.” His tone is gentle.
He takes my hand and escorts me to a table near an open balcony. The breeze floats through the arched openings in the wall. The air is at the perfect temperature. In the distance, a harp plays and for a moment, it feels like home. We look out on the now soft blue sky, breathtaking clouds that rest on the last of the auburn sunset. Above, the dark sky glitters with stars. It drapes down over the evening like silk. So the storm has passed and there is peace for now.
I’ll admit that this view is not one I could see in the Underworld. The evenings there are beautiful in a different way. I am grateful to be a soul who’s able to experience both.
Gracefully, I take my seat, and my father takes his own across from me. With a deep call, “You may enter,” he waves a hand, and servants file into the room, each of them carrying a covered dish. They place them on the table in an arrangement like a spiral, then whisk the gleaming cloches away. Steam rises from the meal. It smells sumptuous. Decadent. The spices in the air make my mouth water.
“Eat, my daughter,” my father says, his tone grand and inviting, and then he reaches for the nearest dish, ambrosia. I’m certain nectar fills his goblet.
For a while, my father chats idly about the colors of the sky, and the shapes of the clouds, and the flavors of the meal. And how good it is for him to have me home. I answer him with genuine gratitude. I am grateful to be eating this food. I am even more grateful that I feel well enough to eat it. That the fear I felt constantly before I went to the Underworld has fallen away. It was a burden and that’s what I thought of my presence as well. No longer does it haunt me, but lays heavy in its place. Still I feel peace, for a moment.
But then Zeus reaches for my glass and a carafe of wine. He pours, then offers me the glass. The wine, a deep jewel red, moves side to side inside the crystal.
“Thank you, Father.” I graciously take the glass from him and rest it at my plate.
Do not drink the wine, Hades whispers in my memory. Do not drink from what your father offers.
Emptiness fills my chest as I hear Hades’s warning. Nothing could be clearer. My father chose the glass and poured the wine, then held it out to me. He has offered. I will not drink.
I continue eating, small morsels that I savor before swallowing.
My father says nothing.
Our silverware clinks against the gold plates.
“Drink your wine, my daughter,” my father says.
I meet his eyes, making mine wide, as if I am merely curious. “Why am I to drink it, Father?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You are to drink it as we always have. It is the drink of the gods.”
My father stares back at me, sitting very still, as if that will make me accept what he says.
