Chapter 193: “Father!”
The sky above Olympus was clear, the morning sun gilding the marble steps with light. Clouds drifted lazily across the horizon, soft and harmless, as though the storm that had hung over the mountain for days had finally eased.
Persephone ran up the path, her cloak pulled back, her basket left behind in the meadow. Her hair streamed behind her as she climbed the golden stairs two at a time, her breath quick but light. Her smile had not faded since dawn.
The guards at the great doors of the hall stepped aside without question. The air inside was cool and wide, every sound echoing faintly across the high ceilings and polished floors.
And at the far end of the hall, upon his throne, Zeus sat.
He was dressed simply today, as he often was when the storms rested—no crown, no heavy mantle, only a robe draped over one shoulder. Lightning flickered faintly behind his eyes, but it was calm, almost playful, like sparks waiting to rise.
Persephone did not wait for ceremony. She ran to him, her sandals clapping against the marble, her laughter ringing through the chamber.
"Father!"
Zeus rose before she reached him. His cloak stirred faintly with the shift of the air, and when she flung herself forward, he caught her with both arms. For a moment, the hall of Olympus held only the sound of her laughter and his low chuckle.
"You came so fast," Zeus said, pulling back just enough to look at her. "Have you forgotten how to walk?"
Persephone shook her head, still smiling, her cheeks flushed. "I had no time for walking. I had to see you."
"And why is that?" His voice was amused, though his eyes searched hers carefully.
She pressed her hands to his arms, holding him as though afraid he might vanish. "Because you spoke with him. Because you did not turn him away."
Zeus tilted his head. "So you know."
Persephone nodded quickly, her eyes bright. "I know. And I wanted to thank you."
–––
He studied her, the stormlight in his gaze softening. There had been times when her words carried hesitation, when her eyes looked to the ground instead of forward. Not today. She stood before him as though the world itself had lifted.
"You’re certain?" Zeus asked gently. "This is not passing fancy, not the sweetness of spring mistaking shadow for cool air?"
Persephone’s smile faded only slightly. She drew a steady breath, her voice lowering. "I have never been so certain. He looks at me as though I am not just flowers and fields. As though I am... more."
Zeus’s lips curved faintly. "That is because you are."
Her eyes softened, and she leaned her head briefly against his chest. "Still, it matters that you see it too. That you believe he is... good."
Zeus stroked her hair once, his hand large and steady. "I know my brother. He is many things—silent, stern, heavy with the weight no one else wished to bear. But he is not careless. He will not break what he values. And you, Persephone... you are not fragile. You were never meant to be."
She pulled back enough to meet his eyes again, her smile returning. "Then you truly give us your blessing?"
"I do," he said simply. "But remember, blessings are not shields. They are torches. You must still walk the path yourself."
–––
She nodded, her smile softening. "I will."
They stood together in the hall, the silence between them gentle, not heavy. For a long time, father and daughter simply looked at one another—the storm and the spring, two halves of the same truth.
At last, Zeus moved to sit again, guiding her to sit beside him on the steps rather than the throne itself. He did not speak at once, only watched her as the light caught her hair and face.
"You look like your mother when you’re stern," he said finally.
Persephone laughed. "And like you when I’m stubborn?"
His grin deepened. "Exactly."
For a time, they spoke of smaller things—the bees in the meadow, the festivals in the cities below, the storms that had skirted Greece but not broken it. Zeus listened more than he spoke, and Persephone talked freely, her voice alive with color. It had been long since she had been this open with him.
At last, when her words slowed and the hall settled into quiet again, Zeus rested his hand on her shoulder. His voice was steady, quiet but carrying weight.
"Go back to the meadows, child. Walk them as you always have. Let him come to you there. Do not hide your joy from the flowers that lean toward your steps."
Persephone searched his eyes, as though waiting for some hidden caution, some shadow behind the words. She found none.
"You truly mean it?"
"I do." He gave a small nod. "The meadow is yours. Let it remain so, even when shadow walks beside it."
Her throat tightened, though her smile grew brighter. She leaned forward, kissed his cheek gently, and whispered, "Thank you."
Zeus’s arm tightened once more around her, brief but strong. "Go on now," he said, his tone lighter. "Before Demeter finds you missing and storms the hall."
Persephone laughed again, rising quickly. She stepped back, her cloak brushing against the marble, and bowed her head once more—not deeply, not formally, but with affection. Then she turned and hurried from the hall, her steps quick but graceful, her joy trailing after her like sunlight.
–––
Zeus sat alone again, the storm flickering faintly behind his eyes. He leaned back in his throne, his hand resting on the arm where sparks danced faintly.
For a long moment, he watched the empty doorway where she had gone, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his lips.
"She has his gaze already," he murmured. "And he has hers."
Lightning cracked softly in the distance, no louder than a heartbeat.
And in the meadows below, Persephone ran once more, her basket swinging at her side, her laughter bright enough to carry through the flowers that leaned toward her touch.