“You poisoned me. You did. With wine. Why did you wish to harm me?”
Anger flashes in his eyes. “I would not harm you, daughter. Everything I’ve done is out of love for you?—”
“Liar!” I scream and the gray skies blacken. My father’s grip on the staff twists and the vines along the carved marble twist into thorns, growing and weaving closer to the throne.
“Speak the truth!” I demand in a hoarse scream.
My father leans on one arm of the throne, looking down at me like my rage is not warranted, as if I’m only here to bother him until he can swat me away to the mortal realm. “What does it matter in the end?”
“That you poisoned me? It matters quite a bit, Father,” I practically spit.
“You love him, yes?” he questions and my eyes widen. The audacity for him to pretend that he aided in a beautiful endeavor rather than one of deceit. I’m struck by his arrogance and the way he twists his actions.
“All I ever did for you, was to ensure you would be loved forever.”
My lips part to answer and find that I am shocked into silence. I was not expecting such excuses. And—love? When my heart aches tirelessly for my lover.
But then, in the beat of silence, I peer at my father’s expression. This past week has aged him and there’s no doubt there is affection in his gaze. Even a plea of understanding. As well as the hope that I’ll admit it, for all the hall to see. Including my mother, who holds her hand to her mouth in the corner of the room as she stares at me.
He watches me, eyes narrowed, seeming…almost impatient. As if he already knows my answer, too. As if I am wasting his time by refusing to answer immediately. He already knows.
“Yes?” he says again, with a tone that says quickly, Persephone, I am the center of Olympus, and I have many other things to do.
“I do love him,” I admit. “But—” The hall erupts with hushed whispers.
“I knew you would. I merely planned for you to meet him in a different way than you did but to always be loved and protected. You know as well as I do, if you’d stayed you would have been lessened to merely a garden nymph!” He raises his voice as his argument picks up steam. “What I did to you, I did for you,” he states, his dark eyes piercing into me, almost paralyzing me.
He wanted me to meet Hades another way? The wheels of my mind spin as my insanity twists around my consciousness.
There is only one other way I could have met Hades, and that is by being sent to the mortal world to become a mortal and then dying. I would have had to lose my status as a goddess, then succumb to something like poison. Then my soul would have gone to the Underworld, like every other mortal soul.
“A different way?” I whisper with my head tilted. “A way where I did not have magic?” My anger simmers within me, and a fire burns outside the window. Erupting and causing screams of terrors. Buckets of water are quickly brought but the fire grows, surrounding the hall.
My father turns to see the flames, then glares at me. “Do you threaten me, daughter?”
“You wanted to take this away from me? My purpose? My very being!” I shout with tears in my eyes.
There are voices at the entrance of the hall. My mother is louder than Aphrodite, but Aphrodite is not much quieter—and there is a third voice with them.
Athena. Her demanding voice ever commanding attention.
“Do not be angry, sister!” Athena says in a tone that is probably meant to be pleading. Or soothing. “He only tries to kill his favorites,” she adds.
“I do not care,” my mother snaps. “Persephone is my daughter. How dare you suggest to me?—”
Aphrodite cuts in. “How could you not know? It was so obvious! How could Demeter’s daughter suddenly be without powers? You had to be waiting for this, Demeter! He never wants to allow?—”
The gods of Olympus argue by his throne as I glare up at him. My fingers stretch one at a time in a pattern before coming back into my palm and all the while the plants wait for my call. With patience I stand before him. My anger dimming with the thoughts of Hades.
He knew. He saved me and yet... He knew.
My father huffs, loud enough to draw my attention back to him.
“What’s done is done,” my father says, clearly finished with the conversation.
I am not finished. But my anger is so strong that I do not know how to form an argument that will cut as deeply in him as I feel now.
I crave to hurt him when I speak. I desire to make my father feel ashamed of what he has done. Although shame is not something he is accustomed to and surely, this is not the worst thing the god has ever done.
