Persephone had taken the bundle, and upon realizing what it was—a quilt, lovingly crafted with small, blue flowers, tears sprang to her eyes.
“I don’t know that I need to tell you what forget-me-nots mean,” Alma continued. “True love, faithfulness, memories. In time, your friend will come to know you again.”
That evening, after Persephone had returned to the castle, she’d hugged the blanket to her chest and wept. The next day, she gifted it to Lexa.
“Oh, it is beautiful, my lady,” she’d said, holding the bundle as if it were a small child.
Persephone stiffened at the use of her title; her brows furrowed and when she spoke, she sounded more confused than anything. “My lady?”
Lexa had never used Persephone’s title before. Their eyes met, and Lexa hesitated, blushing.
Lexa never blushed.
“Thanatos said it is your title,” she explained.
Persephone recognized that titles had a use, but not among friends.
“Call me Persephone.”
Lexa’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You…didn’t.”
As much as Persephone tried to sound convincing, she couldn’t imbue her voice with enough reassurance. The truth was, hearing Lexa call her my lady was another reminder that she wasn’t the same person as before, and as much as Persephone told herself to be patient with Lexa, it was difficult. Lexa looked the same, sounded the same—she even laughed the same, but her personality was different.
“Besides, if we are using titles, then you would have to call Thanatos lord.”
Again, Lexa appeared to be embarrassed. She averted his eyes, and her flush deepened as she answered, “He said…I didn’t have to.”
Persephone had left that conversation feeling strange and somehow, even more distant from Lexa than before.
“Persephone?” Lexa asked.
“Hmm?” Persephone was drawn from her thoughts. Her eyes shifted and met Lexa’s eyes—bright blue, beautiful. Her face was paler here beneath the light of Elysium, framed by her thick, dark locks. She was also dressed in a white gown that tied around the middle. It was a color Persephone could not remember her wearing in the time she had known her in the Upperworld.
“Wedding planning—how is it going?” Lexa asked again.
“Oh,” Persephone frowned and admitted, “I haven’t really begun.”
That was half-true. She hadn’t begun planning—but Hecate and Yuri had. In all honesty, thinking of planning a wedding without Lexa hurt. If she’d been alive, her best friend would have been online looking for color palettes and dresses and venues. She would have made a plan and lists and explained customs Persephone had never been taught by her mother. Instead, she sat across from Persephone, quiet, subdued, unaware of their history. Even if Persephone had wanted to include her in Yuri and Hecate’s plans, she couldn’t—souls were not allowed to leave Elysium unless Thanatos deemed them ready to transition to Asphodel.
“Perhaps we can take the planning to her,” Persephone had suggested.
Thanatos had shaken his head. “Your visits leave her fatigued. She could not handle anything more at the moment.”
He had also attempted to ease the rejection with his magic. The God of Death was able to calm those in his presence, bringing comfort to the grieving and easing anxiety. Sometimes, though, it had the opposite effect on Persephone. She found his influence over emotion invasive, even when he meant well. In the days after Lexa’s death, Thanatos had used his magic in an attempt to ease her suffering, but she’d told him to stop. While she knew he meant well, she wanted to feel—even if it hurt.
It seemed wrong not to when she had caused Lexa so much pain.
“You don’t seem excited,” Lexa pointed out.
“I am excited to be Hades’ wife,” she clarified. “It’s just…I never imagined that I would be getting married. I don’t even know where to start.”
Demeter had never prepared her for this—for anything. The Goddess of Harvest had hoped to outwit the Fates by keeping her isolated from the world—from Hades. When she’d begged to leave the greenhouse, to enter the world in the guise of a mortal, she’d only had dreams of finishing her degree, beginning a successful career, and reveling in her freedom for as long as possible.
Love had never been part of that dream, least of all marriage.
“Hmm,” Lexa hummed, and she leaned back on her hands, head tilted toward the muted sky, as if she wished to sunbathe. “You should start with what makes you the most excited.”
It was advice the old Lexa would have offered.
But what made Persephone most excited was being Hades’ wife. When she thought of their future, her chest felt full, her body electric, her soul, alive.
“I will think on it,” Persephone promised as she rose to her feet. Speaking of the wedding, she was due at the palace soon to begin planning. “Although, I am sure Hecate and Yuri will have their own ideas.”
“They may,” Lexa said, and for a moment, Persephone couldn’t look away. The old Lexa stared back, thoughtful and sincere as she added, “But it is your wedding.”
***
Persephone left Elysium.
She should teleport to Asphodel. She was already running late, but as she left Lexa behind, her vision blurred with tears. She stopped, burying her face in her hands. Her body ached, chest hollow and lungs aflame. She knew this feeling well, as it had crippled her in the days since Lexa’s death. It came, unbidden, like the nightmares haunting her sleep—it came when she expected it and even when she didn’t, attached to laughter and smells and songs, to words and places and pictures. It chipped away at pieces of her.
And it wasn’t just sadness that burdened her—she was also angry. Angry that Lexa had been hurt at all, angry that despite the gods—despite her own Divinity—there was no fighting Fate. Because Persephone had tried, and she had failed.
Her stomach knotted, poisoned by guilt. If she had known what lay ahead, she would have never bargained with Apollo. When Lexa lay unconscious in the ICU, Persephone had just begun to understand what it was to fear losing someone. In fact, she had been so afraid, she had done everything in her power to prevent what was ultimately, inevitable. Her decisions had hurt Lexa in ways that were only repairable with time—and a drink from the Lethe.
Even with her memories gone, Persephone still had hope that the old Lexa would come back. Now she knew the truth—grief meant never going back, it meant never collecting the pieces. It meant that the person she was now in the aftermath of Lexa’s death was who she would be until the next death.
Bile rose in her throat.
Grief was a cruel god.
As she approached the palace, she was greeted by Cerberus, Typhon, and Orthrus who bounded toward her. The three Dobermans halted before her, energetic but obedient. She knelt, scratching behind their ears and moving to their sides. She’d come to understand their personalities more. Of the three, Cerberus was the most serious and the most dominate. Typhon was mellow but always alert, and Orthrus could be silly when he wasn’t patrolling the Underworld—which was almost never.
“How are my handsome boys?” she asked.
They panted and Orthrus’s paws tapped the ground, as if he could barely contain his wish to lick her face.