Chapter 275: Persephone
The garden of Asphodel was unlike any in the mortal realm. Its flowers bloomed pale and scentless, their petals glimmering faintly under the dim light that filtered through the underworld skies. The stems swayed without wind, as if breathing in time with the heartbeat of the land itself. And amidst this endless gray meadow walked Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, the one torn between spring’s renewal and winter’s chains.
She trailed her fingers along the blossoms, each one unfurling slightly under her touch, reaching for warmth that never quite arrived. Her eyes, deep green flecked with gold, held memories few dared to speak aloud. She was not simply Hades’s bride, not only the goddess stolen into shadow—her story was one of choices, bargains, and the cost of eternity.
Tonight, the silence broke.
A figure stepped from the mists: Hecate, goddess of thresholds and secrets, her lantern burning with ghostly flame. "Persephone," she said softly, her voice like the echo of a thousand crossroads. "You have been restless. Even the dead whisper of your unease."
Persephone did not turn immediately. She plucked a flower, its fragile stem bending in her hand. "Restless? Perhaps. Or perhaps the world above stirs too loudly for me to remain still. I feel the sea trembling, Hecate. I feel... him."
Hecate’s eyes narrowed. "Poseidon."
The name hung heavy, heavier even than Hades’s crown.
"Yes," Persephone whispered. "The drowned god no longer sleeps. The waves carry his will. And when he rises fully, it will not only be the seas that change, but the underworld as well."
Hecate tilted her head. "You speak as though you know him."
Persephone finally turned. Shadows clung to her gown of black silk woven with living roots, but light bloomed in her gaze. "Because I do."
Long before chains of marriage bound her, before her abduction by Hades, Persephone had walked the shores of the mortal world. She had been Kore then—maiden of spring, bringer of blossoms. The earth opened beneath her feet, rivers bent toward her path, and the sea... the sea had always answered.
It was Poseidon, not Hades, who first sought her. Not with force, but with recognition.
He had risen from the waters, hair dark as midnight tide, eyes glimmering with storms. "You are the earth’s renewal," he had said to her once, standing knee-deep in foam, "and I, its endless hunger. Yet we are kin, Kore. The soil that feeds your flowers is salted with my tears. The rivers that water your fields are born from my domain. Do not think us strangers."
For a time, she listened. For a time, she almost answered. But fate is not kind to those who hesitate.
When Hades claimed her, dragging her beneath into shadow, Poseidon did not intervene. He raged, yes—storms drowned cities that season—but he did not stop it. And that silence was a wound Persephone never forgot.
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In the Garden of Asphodel
Hecate’s lantern flickered. "You never told Hades of this."
"Would it have mattered?" Persephone’s lips curved into a bitter smile. "He would not have cared. To him, I am possession, crown, legitimacy. To Poseidon, I was something different. Not earth’s daughter, not underworld’s queen. Just... myself."
The lantern flame dimmed, shadows crowding closer. "And now that he has awakened?"
Persephone closed her fist around the flower until the stem snapped. "Now, I fear. Because the man I once knew is no longer whole. He is Poseidon, yes—but beneath that tide, I sense something older. Something that should never have merged with a mortal shell. Thalorin’s essence taints him, and yet... the boy he once carried, Dominic, keeps him from dissolving into pure abyss."
Hecate raised an eyebrow. "You pity him?"
Persephone’s answer was a whisper. "No. I mourn him. For the tide always rises, Hecate. And when it does, it does not ask permission."
Hecate’s lantern crackled, sparks spitting into the ashen air. "If you knew Poseidon before Hades, then tell me, Persephone—why eat the pomegranate? Why bind yourself to shadow when you might have chosen sea?"
Persephone’s eyes lowered. The petals in her hand turned to dust, slipping through her fingers.
"Because the pomegranate was never Hades’s alone. The seeds were carved from an older pact—one made when the first gods divided the world. Zeus took the sky, Poseidon the sea, and Hades the underworld. But the fruit? The fruit was all of theirs. To taste it was to taste them all. And I... I was curious."
Her voice shook. "Each seed carried a fragment of their realms. Shadow. Salt. Sky. And once I ate, I was no longer Kore. I was Persephone, bound to all three. Bride of the underworld, yet tied to tides, yet tied to storms. My life is not simply winter and spring. It is every border. Every crossing. That is why I am feared."
Hecate’s lantern flared. "That is why Poseidon will seek you."
Persephone closed her eyes. In the dark, she could still feel his hand brushing hers on that long-forgotten shore. She could still taste salt on her lips from that first meeting. And she knew, with a clarity that made her chest ache, that when Poseidon rose against Olympus, he would come for her. Not out of love. Not out of vengeance.
But because she was part of the tide he had left unfinished.
A tremor shook the garden. The blossoms quivered, and the earth beneath their roots sighed. Persephone’s eyes snapped open.
The waters of the Styx surged higher, frothing black foam. Across the plain, the dead turned their hollow eyes upward, sensing the shift.
Poseidon’s will pressed even here, seeping into death’s soil.
"He’s closer than I thought," Persephone whispered.
Hecate raised her lantern. "And when he arrives?"
Persephone stood, straightening the crown of obsidian leaves upon her head. Her gaze was steady, but her hands trembled.
"Then the story of the pomegranate ends. Either I will break his tide—or be swept into it."
Alone again in the garden, Persephone walked back through the pale blossoms. With each step, flowers turned from gray to faint green, their petals softening with hints of spring. She had always been duality—life in death, death in life.
But this time, she would be forced to choose.
The sea was rising. The drowned god was walking. And Persephone’s story, buried beneath centuries of silence, was about to resurface with him.
The underworld waited. The gods watched. And in Poseidon’s dreams, somewhere between storm and abyss, a face lingered—a face crowned with flowers, watching him still.