Persephone's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Persephone woke in the dark palace beside her sleeping husband. She slipped from the bed and walked to the high window. Above ground, her mother was grieving. Persephone wanted one thing: to make Demeter bless this marriage. But first she had to be heard. She dreamed of her mother every night now. Gold hair. A torch held high. A voice that said plain things and meant them. Each silent day made Demeter's grief sharper. Each silent day made the living world colder. Persephone climbed to the great gates at the edge of her husband's realm. She had built a small altar there, stone by stone, where the bronze doors met the burning air. This was the only place a message might cross. She knelt and called the screech-owl down from the dark arch. The owl landed on her wrist. Its orange eyes held hers. "Find my mother," Persephone whispered. She tied a folded note to its leg. "Tell her I am well. Tell her I chose this. Tell her to bless us." The owl lifted into the red air and was gone. She waited at the gates for hours. The black river below steamed and hissed, a long wound of silence between the worlds. At last the owl returned. The note was still tied to its leg. Unopened. Unread. Persephone unrolled the paper with shaking hands. Beneath her words, in a different hand, three lines had been burned into the page. "I make things grow. I am not doing that. Do not send the bird again."