Persephone was tired. Tired of being nothing more than the daughter of a nearly forgotten goddess, of being a sweet innocent nymph, a girl content to frolic in fields under the sun. A damsel who ran from danger and blood. She wanted to be more, more than what others had made her.

Persephone led her attendants into the forest, where only the ugly and bitter things grew. Where the cranberries and crabapples grew. Her mother’s sharp words echoed in her ears, warning her of the dark wood, but she threw aside her mother’s pleading and went further. She gathered the sour things, the fruits cast aside for their terrible taste, left to grow and ripen in the forest.  Her maids whispered to her not to, reminding her of her mother’s warning, but still, she pulled them into her arms and devoured them greedily. Her attendants pulled the bounty from her hands, tried to pull her from the forest, but she ripped free from their weak hands. Persephone grabbed at the stones around her feet, and as she pounded them into the flesh of the nymphs, she whispered, softly, in their ears, “You belong to me. You obey only me. You shall do whatever I ask of you, you will have no fear, only obedience.

Persephone stood in the bitter forest, her white dress stained red with blood, pomegranate seeds tangled in her hair. Her arms bled, the mark the maidens had left her. But she wore them proudly. Shallow scrapes are no match for blunt force. 

She stood in silence, watching him approach, the man made of death. He wore a crown of bones, old bones, and a cloak of sadness. His eyes would have driven any mortal mad with despair. He was disease, old age, mental illness finally winning. He was everything that ate away slowly. Everything that killed you so painfully, you felt only relief when it was over. 

So when Hades held out his hand, Persephone took it greedily.



14 years old

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