Chapter 190: "I cannot forget either."
The days passed, but they did not pass the same.
The meadow grew brighter, colors sharper, as if spring itself leaned closer to Persephone’s steps. She moved through the fields with her basket, humming softly, her hands lingering on flowers she had touched a thousand times before but now noticed as though they were new.
The nymphs whispered when she was near. They had always admired her, but now they looked at her with unease—like she carried something in her chest that was not meant to be there. Something they could not name.
Demeter noticed too.
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It was evening when Persephone returned to the halls of her mother. The fires burned low, the scent of bread and fresh grain thick in the air. She placed her basket down, smoothing her cloak, thinking she would slip quietly into her chamber.
But Demeter was waiting.
She stood by the table, tall, golden hair falling loose around her shoulders, her eyes sharp as the blade of a sickle. The goddess of harvest looked at her daughter not with anger, but with the weight of a mother who knew something was shifting beneath the surface.
"You’ve been different," Demeter said. Her voice was calm, but not soft.
Persephone froze, her hand still on the edge of the basket. "Different?"
"Yes." Demeter stepped closer, her gaze steady. "You walk like the wind follows you. You smile when no one has spoken. And when you look at flowers, you look as if they speak back."
Persephone’s cheeks warmed. She lowered her eyes, fumbling with the folds of her dress. "You imagine things, Mother."
Demeter reached out, tilting her chin up gently. "No. I see. You are my child. You cannot hide it from me."
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The silence stretched between them. Persephone’s heart raced, words pressing against her lips that she knew she should not say. But Demeter’s eyes searched hers with such steady patience that the truth slipped out before she could stop it.
"I met someone."
The words rang in the chamber like a bell.
Demeter’s breath caught. Her hand fell from Persephone’s chin, curling into her cloak instead. "Someone."
Persephone nodded, her eyes dropping again. "Yes."
Demeter’s voice hardened, though it did not rise. "Who?"
Persephone’s lips trembled. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. "I cannot say."
Demeter’s eyes narrowed. "You cannot—or you will not?"
Persephone shook her head, her dark hair brushing across her cheek. "It is not time. Not yet."
–––
The goddess of harvest turned away, pacing the chamber slowly. Her footsteps echoed heavy against the stone, her hands clasping tightly before her. "A mortal?" she asked at last.
Persephone hesitated. "No."
Demeter’s jaw tightened. "Then a god."
The silence was answer enough.
She spun back, her gray-green eyes sharp with dread. "Do you know what you say? Do you know what gods are?"
"Yes," Persephone whispered. "I know."
"They do not see mortals or blossoms or children," Demeter said, her voice cutting. "They see pieces to claim. Thrones to fill. They are storms that leave nothing standing."
Persephone’s chest ached, but her voice came quiet, steady. "Not all storms destroy."
–––
Demeter stared at her, disbelief breaking through her composure. "You defend him."
Persephone swallowed hard, forcing her voice not to shake. "I only say what I have seen."
"What have you seen?" Demeter demanded.
Persephone’s fingers brushed against her basket, the flowers still bright within it. She drew out a poppy, holding it lightly in her hands. "I saw someone who listened. Someone who carried shadow but did not strike me with it. Someone who took a flower from my hand, and it lived."
Demeter’s lips parted, her eyes flicking to the poppy as though it were poisoned. "You speak like a girl enchanted."
"I speak like myself," Persephone said, her voice trembling now but refusing to break. "For once, I am not repeating prayers, or promises, or the words you placed in me. These are mine."
–––
The chamber grew quiet. Only the sound of the fire filled the space.
Demeter closed her eyes, her breath sharp. "Persephone..." Her tone was no longer hard—it was heavy, full of fear she could not hide. "Do you understand what you risk? You are spring. Life. The turning of seasons. You are not meant to walk with shadows."
Persephone’s eyes softened, though her voice stayed firm. "Perhaps that is why the shadow looked at me as it did. Because flowers are not meant to grow there. But they can."
Demeter’s hand trembled at her side. "You are my daughter."
"I am," Persephone whispered. "But I am more than your daughter."
–––
The words struck like a blade. Demeter’s shoulders sagged, her breath heavy. She turned away, pressing her hands to the edge of the table, steadying herself as if the weight of her own grief would bend her knees.
Persephone stepped closer, reaching out, but stopped just short of touching her mother’s arm.
"I will not let harm come to you," Demeter said, her voice breaking softer now, raw. "Whatever this is, whoever this is, it will pass. It must."
Persephone’s throat tightened, but she said nothing. Her silence was its own answer.
–––
Demeter closed her eyes, her lips pressed thin. She knew she would not win this with commands. Not tonight. But her fear burned bright, the fear of a mother watching her child walk toward something vast and dark.
She turned her head slightly, her voice low, almost pleading. "Promise me only this. That you will not go where I cannot follow."
Persephone’s chest ached. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She wanted to promise. She wanted to ease the tremor in her mother’s voice. But she thought of the shadow, the poppy in his hand, the way his eyes had met hers as if she were more than what the world named her.
Her silence lingered.
And that silence was enough to tell Demeter she already had one foot beyond her reach.
–––
Later, when Persephone lay alone in her chamber, the night air cool against her skin, she touched the poppy resting beside her bed. Her fingers traced its petals, still alive, still bright.
She whispered into the dark, her voice too soft for anyone but herself to hear.
"I cannot forget either."
–––
And in the depths below, where no light reached, Hades sat upon his throne, the same flower resting against the iron armrest. It did not wither.
The underworld stirred, and for the first time in an age, so did his heart.