your thirteenth birthday falls on a warm spring day; the sun is bright, the sky clear, and all of the flowers are in bloom. it is also the day that Persephone dies. you find everything about it fitting and poetically ironic. the day goes like this: you wake at first light, sun creeping through the tears in the fabric of your tent, rub the sleep from your eyes and stretch your weary limbs. your muscles ache, as they’re prone to nowadays, but you ignore them and dress yourself. your armor feels too heavy on your shoulders and the steel of your blades too comforting against your skin. you visit the table that has maps and war plans scattered across the wood surface, your eyes glance at the calendar set in the corner. you frown when you realize what day it is. you do not like your birthday. so you turn the calendar down, straighten your spine, and focus on work. you have battle plans you must discuss with your soldiers, people you need to heal, and you think you’ll lead today’s hunt, or at least the foraging expedition. you need more herbs, plants for your healing mixtures and for poisons. you do not mean to stumble upon the goddess, in a open field littered with flowers. she doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t realize that you are the feared war queen, Conquest, because she smiles at you warmly when she plucks a pink flower from the grass. “this would look lovely in your hair,” the goddess comments casually, extending the flower like an offering. you don’t accept it and she sighs. “I’ll weave you a crown instead,” she suggest and you think you might be looking at her in wonder because she smiles so gently, pats the grass beside her and gestures for you to sit beside her. you can see why Hades kidnapped her, swallowed her into the underworld like a greedy man. Persephone is beautiful, in a gentle way that will haunt you days after her death-- you’re suddenly questioning your desire to slay all of the god, but then you remember what they’ve done to your people and your heart hardens all over again. her hair is light colored, like yours, but tinged with green or pink or blue or purple depending on the flowers around her, her eyes are the prettiest shade of green you think you’ve ever seen-- pale but sparkling and it creates a fluttering in your stomach that reminds you of the day you met War. she is small, barely bigger than you are and you cannot tell if that is her natural size or if she’s shrunk herself to make you more comfortable in her presence. you’re moving forward, settling in beside her with your feet tucked beneath you before you realize what you’re doing. she smiles so brightly, so warmly, at you when you join her that you cannot keep from grinning back in return. you watch as her fingers twists flower stems deftly into the makings of a crown. you are mesmerized, duly wonder if this is how people watch you when you stitch up their wounds. “what is your name little one?” your mouth opens, then snaps shut because you cannot tell her the truth. you cannot bear to have the illusion shattered so soon. you’re forced to look away, cheeks flushed from the earnest way Spring looks at you. there is an all consuming warmth that spreads through you when she reaches out and pushes your hair from your face. “Livia,” you lie-- it’s not like she can learn the truth. “well, Livia, I am Persephone.” you swallow the I know, I’m going to kill you, that tries to spring out your mouth. “thank you for joining me.” “you are lady spring.” she smiles sweetly at you in response and your heart lurches and your stomach flips. you do not understand the way she makes you feel, but it’s a warm and possibly happy fluttering in your belly and you think you’d like to keep that feeling. “I am, Livia,” she reaches for you, tucks loose hair behind your ear and you cannot keep your cheeks from growing red. “you are a child of spring aren’t you?” you cannot look at her, instead you focus on the grass beneath you. you pluck a long blade and twirl it between your fingers. “I am,” you whisper, ashamed. “you look like one,” there is nothing but fondness in the goddess’s voice and her fingers trail down your cheek, cup your jaw. her gaze rakes across your face, takes in your sun-spun hair, lightly tanned skin, and bright but hardened blue eyes. there’s a heat to her gaze that you notice, but don’t understand, so you focus on the blade of grass in your hand pulling it apart at the seam. “I do not feel like one,” you admit, pulling away and turning your face so she cannot see you frown. it occurs to you that this is perhaps the most intimate exchange you’ve had with another person since your mother passed. it does funny things to your stomach, your heart beats erratically, and too many parts of you are warm, flushed. you don’t like the confusion she stirs in you, but you cannot figure out why. “Livia,” she murmurs, soft and sweet, and your heart lurches unexpectedly. “lady spring.” Persephone looks at you carefully, smiling sweetly all the while before looking at the expertly woven crown in her lap. “come here.” you comply immediately. she settles you between her thighs, facing away from her so that she can card her fingers through your hair. her touch is soft and gentle, like everything else about her, and you relax against her. the goddess hums happily as she twists and pulls and weaves your hair. in the end, it’s a delicate crown that wraps around your head and she threads flower stems through the gaps. “you look beautiful,” she tells you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. your cheeks flush and a pool of warmth settles in your belly. “i am nothing compared you you lady spring.” “hush Livia,” the spring goddess scolds, “you are beautiful.” you do not think yourself to be such, with your blood stained hands and the scars that litter your skin, but beneath her gaze you flush because - if Persephone thinks you beautiful, then perhaps you are.
excerpts from a book i’ll never write #40
