Page 21 of His in the Dark

PERSEPHONE

I know not much of my powers here. Only that growing new life from naught is futile. She tells me I have more power than I know and perhaps it is because there is something in this realm that I have a gift for, and I do not know of it yet. I’m reminded of my mother who was told of my powers, teaching me. Was she told more? Does she know? Does anyone know? The Fates did not prepare me for this and I wonder if they play with the threads of Gods.

Sylvie sits across from me at the old oak table in the corner of the room, various materials gathered in front of her in a neat row. I have my own collection before me. We’re making witches’ ladders in the light of the window. Yarn. Feathers. Both came from a small wicker basket Silvie carried in with her this morning. She says it’s her favorite thing to do. To weave like the Fates, spells of wishes and protection.

I wish to know my powers here. To know what is possible, to know where my powers lay in this realm… I wish to be my highest self and earn the title of Queen of the Dead if I must stay here.

I concentrate on another knot. Another feather. We have been working in silence, because Silvie made clear that some silence was required. Concentration, really. In order for this work to have any power, it must be done with intention, with emotion and with the power within.

My intentions are not simple.

Be stronger than anyone who prays for me to bend to their will, I think, and tie another knot.

Be more powerful than I can imagine , I think, and add another feather. So powerful no one would ever dare harm me.

Discover every bit of magic I can bend to my will so that I may rule myself and no God can force otherwise, I think, again and again.

With the mere thought of Gods ruling over me, I glance to my right. The fire crackles beyond it and as it does, Sylvie’s eyes glance up to the flames and then to me. She’s quick to look away, as if she knows what I think.

My mind keeps returning to the bed, and being in it with him . I had not expected to feel power in pleasure. I had expected to be…made smaller, somehow. I thought giving myself to another would be more like letting him take me. Take part of me. Claim it as his forever.

It does feel like Hades has claimed a part of me as his, but only because I offered it in exchange for a piece of him. Only because I wanted him to claim it. Surely that is a kind of strength, too. Did I find it because it was already within me, or did I find it because he taunted me with those words?

It seems you found your strength, no ?

And I had said…

More like my anger.

I make another knot. Add another feather. The ladder grows as does my desire.

If I could go back and have that conversation again, I might use another word.

I might say more like my passion. That is how it feels to me now. Like passion, which can seem like anger if it burns hot enough.

It certainly burned hot when we were moving together under the protection of the covers. So heated I could hardly keep my mind above the sensations. So hot that many times, I did not, and I let them overwhelm me. The feeling is addictive. I crave more of him. The feeling and his power.

Maybe that is a kind of strength as well. Maybe it does take courage to let pleasure claim a part of you, because once you have done so, you cannot forget it.

I will never be able to forget that moment. When there was a shift within me. When I felt such things that cannot be undone.

Concentrating on pleasure and strength nudges my thoughts into another realm. I make the decision to speak only moments before I do.

“I have a friend I miss,” I tell Silvie. “I wish to send her a message.”

Silvie frowns down at her witch’s ladder. “I cannot aid you with that.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I say lightly. “You have helped me with so much. Surely you can help me with a message.” I don’t look her in the eyes. Not yet. I am careful as I speak to her with this request.

Silvie laughs, her cheeks turning pink. “I know only what I know. Sending messages to places other than this one is not within my power. I am confined to the realm, my queen.”

I had not considered her magic is confined to the realm. What I know of the Underworld was only stories because whispers are not known to be true. Communications are limited between Hades and Zeus alone. Hekate knows. But she is silent in most ways. A light dims within me as I think of my mother and of Beatrice. Perhaps I can persuade Hades. He seems to enjoy pleasing me. The dull flame brightens at the thought.

“I see. We should find out what lies within my power.” I tie the last knot on my witch’s ladder and stand up, Silvie’s eyes following me. “You have told me many stories, but I do not think I have done my part. I haven’t practiced enough or tested beyond simple spells.”

“You have, my queen,” Silvie says quickly. “You have done the work of years in a short time. You may see them as simple but a single flame can turn an entire kingdom to ash.”

“In my mind, but not so much with magic.”

“What do you call those bells on the door, then?”

“A little practice.” I smile at her, and she smiles back. “Those are evidence that I am trying, but you have guided me again and again to the fire. Let’s imagine we are there for the first time.”

Silvie looks skeptical, but joins me at the grate across the room. It’s then that the door creaks gathering our attention. Cerberus enters the room. Such a regal pup with his three heads, all eyes on me. He trots towards me and I pat his heads to greet him before he takes a preferred spot in the corner of the room.

I watch him as he makes his circles and lies down.

“Well then,” Sylvie says with a huff. “You have gained more power than you know.”

“What do you mean?” I ask her before she returns her attention back to the grate.

“He does not allow anyone beyond Hades to touch him.”

I search her eyes to see if such things are true and find sincerity there. “I did not know.”

She nods, something changing in her eyes before she says, “Back to our task at hand?”

Nodding, I take in a steadying breath.

The flames are low, and do not give off much heat. “This is the fire, my queen,” she says slowly. “Magic can be worked here, as fire consumes, and its work is shown in flames. These are flames.” She points, and I laugh. Silvie’s mouth twitches, but she keeps her expression serious. “The way to approach magic such as this is by concentrating on the flames and the work they must do. How high do you see them, how hot can you feel them, what colors dance within them? You must see it in all ways. You must know it to be your vision. I will put them out for you.”

Silvie waves her hand, and the flames burn out. Envy burns within me at her power. She controls the fire so easily.

“Now,” she says, her voice hinting at laughter. “Concentrate on the work.”

“The work?” I ask, as if we have not talked about this before.

“Yes. The fire consumes the wood, turning it to heat and flame. That means that the power you send must…understand the intention.”

They are the same words she has said to me before, or very similar, but they reach my ears differently.

I concentrate on the empty grate, and the power that must exist in the underworld even if it is different from the power of bringing life. At first I envision taking from the floor beneath me. The black obsidian and sparkling pyrite. Vaguely I hear a scratching sound and I welcome it this time. Whatever craves for me to hear it, I listen. With my hand outreached and my head falling back, I allow my mind to think of the flames and of its purpose. Its heat. My eyes close and the vision comes without conscious thought, I think of Hades’s hard length, of his hips rutting between my legs, of my growing desire, the mere intention of letting him fuck me as he desires and how the flames of his power wrap around me.

An ember crack s. My eyes open in an instant and I stare at the wood. Imagining the flames that match the beauty of what I had in that moment. I wish to see my own desire in the flames. My lips part and I will it to give me that pleasure.

And this time, a small fire catches, the little flames dancing there before us for several beats and just as I begin to enjoy them, they sputter out again.

“Your powers are progressing,” Silvie says breathlessly. “That is more than I have seen you achieve before.”

Humming in confirmation, I attempt to hold onto the fact that I made fire. Never have I before and I find comfort in that. “They do seem to be progressing,” I agree, trying to keep my voice from showing too much emotion. “Thanks to you.”

Silvie scoots closer, both of us on our knees and squeezes my hand. Both of us look into the grate. No flames now, but there had been. They were there. I made them.

“My Queen,” she says. “Have you had your wine today?”

“Not yet.” Wine is for the Gods and divination.

“Perhaps we’ll have a glass and try again after?”

With a smile, I acquiesce although when I look back to the grate, I envision the flames and I swear I hear the crackle again. We go back to the small table. Silvie pours the wine into two goblets with a proud smile on her face. We lift the cups and clink them together, then drink. It’s a true celebration, though it is only the two of us standing side by side at the table together.

Silvie exhales, lowering her glass. “Do you know, my queen, that there are spells for things such as…love and peace?”

Her statement sends a shift through me. As if my very being knows her statement to have purpose.

“I have heard of them, but I thought they were mostly myths.” I take another sip of my wine. The flavor is rich on my tongue, and full. I savor it before I swallow. “The kinds of magic one hopes for, but can rarely use.”

Silvie reaches over to her chair and takes something out of her basket.

It is a book, bound in smooth leather with an intricate pattern embossed into the cover. Silvie holds it out to me with both hands, and I take it just as carefully, my fingertips slipping over the texture.

I meet her eyes, my heart racing. Silvie nods.

I balance the book in one hand and open the book.

The aged pages inside are covered in writing. These are ancient words. Spells that are so old they have become viewed as myths. I run my fingertips over the writing. The page feels warm with power. Or is it the heat of my intention in my hands? I think it might be both.

“Love and peace,” I say softly. “The spells for those things can be found in this book?”

“Yes, my queen. And balance. We know so much of hate and violence, but they only exist because of the balance we protect.”

Spells for peace and love. I know there is no new weight on my shoulders, but I feel it regardless. These spells would take much more power than lighting a fire for a few seconds. They would take more power than I have ever dreamed of having, or trying to use. For they reflect onto others. To their minds and actions. Like sirens in the ocean and the fairies in the woods. Although the creatures I speak of are mysterious and dangerous.

Silvie exhales as if she needs to speak the words more than she needs to breathe. “I do not think it will be Hades who saves us,” she says.

It takes me a few seconds to absorb her words and lift my eyes from the book to hers. She looks at me steadily.

“Save us?”

“From the fallout of what he’s done to be with you,” she answers.

“You think it will be my mother? My father?” I question her, not knowing if either will ever find me here.

The corner of Silvie’s mouth turns up slightly. “I think it will be you.”

A chill runs through me as Silvie inclines her head and leaves. Her steps are the only thing I can hear as I watch her go. I close the cover of the book and lay it on the table.

It takes a few moments before I can think clearly. Surely I am not meant to save anyone in this state. I swallow thickly, removing the thought entirely from my mind. If I am to be Queen of the Underworld, and Hades believes it as truth, then there is something I will do.

With the thought echoing in my mind and the chill having an unrelenting grip on me, I return to the grate and concentrate my power into it. The power of the Queen of the Underworld.

The flames spring to life without hesitation. My eyes widen, almost in disbelief, but I refute the notion, and instead I tell the flames what I want of them.

I sit before them and watch as they dance, letting my gaze settle on them, considering the power there. I wish to play with it, to grow it, to feel the warmth and desire Hades gives me. The power I took from him. I know I did such things even if it was not my intention. For I am more powerful today than I was before.

What appears in the flames comes slowly. At first, I think it is just shadows, but I keep my eyes soft, and the image clarifies.

In the flames, I see my mother, crying. Dread slips into my blood and my lips part with a pain of seeing her cry.

Tears stream down my face slowly, but it stopped mattering to me long ago. What difference does it make if someone sees me? None. If I must cry, I will allow it. And in this moment, the absence of my mother but knowing her pain is too much for my soul to bear. I wish she could see me light the fire. I wish she could know the power I feel in this place.

Tears flow from me as I watch her scream and thrash against my father who wishes to calm her. His sorrow is evident and I cannot stop my emotion but I am grateful for it and I do not care if anyone sees it. The flames are swept away by the wind and my mother is gone. But it doesn’t take long for the fire to play before me another scene.

In the vision, there is a knock at the door, and it opens to reveal Zeus, a servant hovering by his side. He steps across the threshold with the servant and takes in my quarters in Olympus, which is spacious, with graceful wood floors and plaster walls. These may seem like mortal touches to others, but they are mine. Beatrice’s love for them grew on me years ago.

My father gazes to the plants that once grew here. I see them the way he must.

All the flowers have died. The fruit has withered and spoiled. None of it grows anymore. None of it bears life.

Zeus looks back at me, I swear he sees me. I can feel his eyes on me. And I can see in his eyes that he thinks I have met the same fate. A coldness of death flows through me as the back of my eyes prick with tears.

But no—I am still present.

I watch him blankly, feeling nothing except grief, raw in my chest. It occurs to me that I should stand to greet him.

I stand, but no words leave my lips.

“Demeter.” Zeus clasps his hands in front of him. “Many Gods come. They bring many gifts.”

“They are not my Persephone,” she replies. “Bring her back to me!”

He lifts one hand. “Demeter?—”

“How am I to know she’s well?” she rasps, her voice etched in raw pain. “How am I to live without her?”

I wish to scream to her, but my voice is silent.

“Demeter,” he says again, but she does not care to hear what he has to say. She does not care to see his face.

The feelings break loose like a plant bursting out from a seed and racing toward the sun. One with many thorns that cuts and tears at my insides.

This feeling—this horrible, bleeding feeling—wretches through me as my mother answers my father.

“If I must suffer, so must all. So will you .” With that the fire goes out and I’m left stunned wondering if what I witnessed, even the hissing of my mother was real.

Olympus

Demeter

I slam the door in Zeus’s face and pace away, the anger simmering within me. A full moon has passed and there is no word! How could they not have found my daughter? There is betrayal and I know it so. I have been still for many hours, and now I feel as if I will burn alive if I do not walk. Move . If I do not do something.

How dare he come to me without her. With gifts? As if anything could replace her? Come to me with the severed hands of those who stole her from me!

Is this what it feels like to go mad? I used to think that the great abundance that surrounded me would shield me from such madness. I gave so willingly, wanting those to have fortune I possess.

But there is no abundance without Persephone. There is nothing without Persephone. Nothing without my daughter.

Covering my eyes with my hands, I press my palms to my reddened eyes.

I am supposed to be the goddess of abundance. I am the goddess who gives of the harvest so that the earth can keep turning. So that mortals can continue in their cycles. So that the realms work as they should, in accordance with the Fates.

My gaze settles on a sliver of quartz that falls from the chiseled wall. It shook free as the door slammed. A thin sliver with rough edges.

“All will feel this pain,” I whisper, dropping my hands and throwing the words at my window. “It does not leave me, so it will not leave you.” I carve a sigil into the wooden floor. The ragged rock digs into my flash and blood drips to the tip of the crystal, filling in the etching.

The sigil; agony.

This pain will never leave me. Not until Persephone is with me once more. This pain consumes me like fire, but it does not bless me with light. It only scorches the loss.

“Agony,” I pronounce. I do not know who I’m praying to. All I know is that I will not pray only for the return of my daughter. “I want agony . All mortals shall suffer crippling agony, and may they blame it on you , Zeus. May they blame it on your incompetence. May they blame it on your lies. May they blame you for all their suffering. May you pay . May all feel the agony of loss. May it be felt as if it was their own.” I stare down at the carving and whisper, “Until she is returned, all will feel my pain. So mote it be.”