Macaria's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Macaria stepped out from under the great tree. The bark closed behind her. She pressed both hands to the grass and felt it, cool and alive, springing back against her palms. She smiled. The underworld had no grass. She had only read of it. Now it grew warm under her fingers, and the sun touched her white hair. Her shadow wolf sat beside her, quiet and dark against the green. Ahead lay a sunlit field of wheat, golden heads swaying in the wind. Beyond it stood a small wooden cottage with flowers along its base. Persephone walked into the wheat, laughing, and threw her arms wide. Where her mother stepped, new blossoms opened in the grain. Then a second figure came from the far edge of the field. An older woman moved through the wheat toward them. A crown of golden straw sat on her neat brown hair. Her white and gold gown brushed the grain. She walked slowly, her eyes fixed on Persephone. "Mother," Persephone breathed. She ran to her. The two women met and held each other tight. Flowers burst up around their feet in a bright ring. This was Demeter, goddess of the harvest. Macaria had never met her grandmother. Persephone had spoken of her often, always with an ache in her voice. Macaria stood back, unsure. She did not know how these two loved each other, or whether there was room in it for her. The wolf pressed against her leg. She stayed near the tree. Demeter pulled back from her daughter and looked past her. Her gaze found Macaria. The old goddess studied the white gown, the flowers and small skulls tied at its hem, the pale green eyes. "So this is her," Demeter said. Her voice was steady. "Hades's child." Macaria's throat tightened. She braced for anger. Her father had taken Persephone by force long ago. Demeter had every reason to hate the underworld and all it made. But Demeter crossed the wheat and stopped before her. She did not scowl. She held out one hand, palm open. "You came up into the light," Demeter said. "You chose it. My daughter never got the choice." Her fingers stayed steady in the air. "Come. Eat at my table. Learn what warmth feels like." Macaria looked at the offered hand. She thought of her father's kiss on her knuckles, his sad amber eyes. She thought of the love she had come here to understand. Slowly she reached out and took Demeter's hand. It was warm and rough and real. "Thank you," Macaria whispered. Demeter's fingers closed around hers and drew her forward, into the wheat, toward the cottage. Persephone laughed and looped an arm through Macaria's other side. The wolf followed at her heel. Macaria had a place to begin. She had a family above ground now, and a door open to her. But she still did not know how love was chosen here. The learning would start at a stranger's table.