Page 76 of Hades and Persephone: Threads of Fate

Rhea, my mother.

He’s right. If not for her madness, a conversation with her could prove enlightening. She is far older than the Olympians, and there is a possibility she’d known Chaos personally. Or enough to recognize the lineage of the gifts Persephone is in possession of today.

A chill snakes my spine at the thought of seeing my mother, whom I’ve locked like the other Titans, in a canvas.

Only hers is not a canvas of torment. Not anymore.

Ignoring the chill, I point to the black orb in the center of the image that looks, alarmingly like a galaxy. A galaxy we’ve never seen, for it is not of this universe. “What is that?”

“That is nothing.”

I scowl. “It looks like something to me.”

Hermes moves to a wall of books. With his back to me, he plucks one from the shelf to let it fall open on his forearm, the spine bent back. He handles the ancient tome with such carelessness. Persephonewould accuse him of some kind of crime. Simply thinking of her fills my blood with heat.

Hermes tells me, “I thought the same thing, when I studied the images. I’ve pored over these images since I took them two weeks ago.” Over his shoulder he says, “I planned to tell you as soon as I took them, but you were otherwise occupied.”

“Yes.” I hate that I have to admit I wasn’t there for Persephone while the madness of Tartarus clung to me. “You watched over her while I was away.”

He pauses to glance at me, single brow raised. “Minthe told you.”

“No.”

He frowns. “Leuce, then.”

“No.”

“How?”

My pitch lowers. “I scented you on her when I returned.”

His eyes widen. He mutters, “Well, I’m surprised you’ve only now come to me.”

“As am I.”

Hermes returns his attention to the book, flipping a page and settling on it before plucking a second book from the shelf. He drapes the second over the first and begins to search it as he defends, “I didn’t touch her. I was simply present to ensure that history did not repeat.”

“I know.” There is a moment of silence. I force, “Thank you.”

Hermes stiffens, but only says, “Here it is.”

Hermes walks to the table in the seating area, dumping the books on it. Penned by hand, some of the ink is smudged and some is simply a casualty of time. The images spread on the page might be an exact replica of the images carved into the temples and other ancient artifacts long since forgotten. It is a marvel to me sometimes, the answers that live within these images, that humanity today might find to their questions. If only they trusted these civilizations were privy to more than they themselves are today.

The stigma that the ancient peoples were doing little more than cave-art is why society today is crumbling. Faith is declining and darkness is surging. Despair clings in the air in much the same way that rain can be scented before a storm.

“This is Chaos.” The Goddess is high on the page in a star-filled sky and, contradictorily, at her feet, is a full and blazing sun. In the center of her chest is an eruption of darkness eclipsed in light, just like that which lives inside Persephone. Only this light is connected by beaming rays down the Goddesses’ legs to the sun at her feet. It spills into the open mouth of another God, who then glows with that light. Hermes taps the God devouring all light—an accepted gift from the Goddess of Matter. “Aether, Light.”

I continue to study the page. There is a tear where her heart beats, oozing blood. From her womb spills adarkness that is somehow solid, sprouting vines and earth. From between her lips spills a river of fire.

She is the personification of all that exists. The Goddess of Matter. Of nothingness and everything at once.

He flips the pages, beginning at the start where a Goddess is drawn on a blank page. He taps the Goddess at the center. “Chaos.” He flips again. The Goddess at the center is at the top now, and she pours shadows into the mouth of the God below, who then erupts in darkness. “Erebus, Darkness and Shadow,” Hermes tells me what I already know. This is my history too, but I say nothing. He flips the page again.

Chaos is still centered at the top, a Goddess below. Into her mouth pours a cluster of stars that burst from her form in a collage of brilliance. Hermes says, “Nyx, Night.” He flips. The positions are the same, but into the waiting mouth—like a child suckling for the breast—Chaos pours earth. “Gaia, Mother Earth.” Another page. Another God accepting the blood that rains from the heart that throbs in Chaos’ carved open chest. Another gift. “Eros, Love and Attraction.” Hermes flips again. From Chaos eyes, she spills tears that fall into the waiting mouth of the God below. “Pontus, Sea and Fish.” He flips the last page. His eyes lift to mine, for we both know I’ve long since contained within my forms the God who waits, his mouth open to devour the essence of torment. Hermes’ voice is quiet. “Tartarus, Underworld.”

“The Primordial Gods.”

“Yes. The beginning of all that was and all that is. Together, they make seven. The Seven Gods of creation, and Chaos, the before.”

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