It is the second sentence that does not fit.
The wine our father gave you.
That does not make sense. My eyes narrow. Although Zeus may be cruel, he has never attempted to harm me. Never. And why would he? What have I done to deserve his wrath?
My father poisoned me? My father gave me wine that would eventually kill me or leave me without my powers? My father gave me that wine, over and over, every time I sat at a table with him? Was it all poisoned? I’ve drank it for as long as I’ve known.
I always drank the wine my father offered me. I did not have any reason to think he would give me anything to harm me. I can picture my hand in a hundred different shades of light, morning and afternoon and evening. Night, with the glow of sconces on the walls casting a shadow onto the tablecloth along with the clear outline of the glass and the dark-as-blood color of the wine.
I’m reminded of the anger on his face when I challenged him. Hades gave me enough to know that something was wrong with the wine my father offered me, but he did not use the word poison. He told me he could not speak of what he knew, but insisted that I shouldn’t drink the wine. How did he know? My rage burns for Hades as well. How could he have known and why was he not foretelling? Men who claim to love me…what have they done?
Why couldn’t he speak of what he knew? Why could he warn me, but not tell me the full truth of what had happened? How does he know the full truth?
Thoughts race in my mind as my breath comes heavier and heavier and my vision turns red.
Is the Underworld part of this, too? Who else knows? My sister Aphrodite, Hades, my father. I turn to gaze upon my mother. Does she know? She couldn’t have. Not her. Please. Not my mother as well.
With my throat tight, I cannot speak. For if she confesses I know not what I’ll do.
A righteous anger grips the mourning that flows through me. I feel as if I should be surprised, but I am only surprised that the news has come now, and so easily, from Aphrodite. She does not seem to wonder if what she says is true. She is not passing along a rumor. She knows this for sure. Zeus gave me poisoned wine and Hades knew.
I rise from my seat so quickly that my mother gasps.
“Persephone,” she whispers my name and reaches for me. “Stop.”
“No,” I answer with my jaw clenched and a madness racing in my blood. “I need to speak with my father.”
“What did you say to her?” My mother asks Aphrodite, as if she is hearing what Aphrodite said after a long delay. “Did you say poisoned?”
“Demeter,” Aphrodite begins, and I do not stay to hear what she says. I’ve heard enough.
Their voices follow me as I move through the halls, echoing again. I’m not paying attention. The conversation they’re having will catch up with me, or it will not. All that matters is finding him. Confronting him. The god of gods acted to harm me. With my fingers outstretched I’m vaguely aware that the ivy that traces along the arches bursts into thorns. The once vibrant petals of florals turn a deadly black as I move through Olympus.
Murmurs of those around me mean nothing so long as they move out of my way.
With a shove of my hand nowhere near the doors, the ancient and carved wood cracks open violently at my arrival. I stride through, nearly blinded by rage.
Poison me? If he wishes to kill me may he strike me dead for all to see! May my wrath bring upon poisonous spores for him to breathe! As my heart pounds, I’m made aware that the hall is filled with people. My father sits proudly in one of his thrones on the dais. Beside him is a man who has Zeus’s attention.
Whatever he requires of my father, it will wait.
“Father,” I call, making my voice loud enough to cut through all the remaining conversation in the room. The hall goes silent at my interruption.
“Look.” A servant gasps as she points at me. It’s then I feel my crown. What once was a floral wrath upon my head is now consumed with flames. My fingers twine with their warmth. I peer down at my pale chiffon robes to find them a seething red.
The shadows of the darkness overcome my light.
“The dark queen,” the servant whispers in reverence until my narrowed eyes meet hers and then return to Zeus, the object of my rage.
I do not wait for him to look up as he seems to refuse to meet my gaze. I stride toward the throne as he reaches for his staff and the skies above us darken. Gods and mortals alike move aside as I approach the dais. I have not come into the hall like this before. I have never barged through a crowd without waiting to see if they would move for me. I have only one goal, and it is to reach my father and settle things between us.
He will never harm me again. That I am sure of.
The person who is speaking with my father—I do not even bother to see who it is—whirls out of my path as I stride up to the dais. I do not see where they go. I do not look to see who is watching. I plant my feet in front of his throne and stand up tall.
“Poisoned wine?” I breathe the accusation. “You dared to serve me poison?” With an arched brow I speak more clearly, sure that those in the hall will hear. Their hushed whispers are my confirmation.
My father waves a hand lazily in the air as if it is not truth spoken. “You are not poisoned now.”
