Page 51 of Where Darkness Bloomed
The words were intended to soothe, but—
“He is withher!” Demeter sobbed, pain and fury etching her features. “She will not let him come to me!”
“Shhh,” Artemis soothed, bathing her forehead with a cloth. “Do not fear. You are almost there.”
Aphrodite grasped Demeter’s hand, and her voice was commanding as she said, “Push.”
With a harsh scream, Demeter obeyed. A rush of ichor spilled forth, and an infant slipped into the world with a wail that echoed through the chamber.
Aphrodite swiftly cleaned and wrapped the babe in soft linen, her brilliant eyes shining as she placed the child into Demeter’s trembling arms. “A goddess,” she smiled. “A beautiful, little goddess.”
Relief softened Demeter’s face as she cradled the newborn close.
Then thunder rumbled ominously.
The chamber doors flew open as Zeus strode in, his presence wrapped in stormlight. Behind him, Hera stood at a distance, her gaze cold as she watched him approach Demeter.
“You have our congratulations, Demeter,” Zeus intoned, his voice echoing off the walls. He approached the couch, smiling warmly. “The pantheon gathers to honor you and your child.”
Leaning down, he scooped the infant from her arms. He gazed down at the child in unmistakable satisfaction. “Artemis,” he called. “Summon the others.”
Artemis’s silver eyes flicked toward Demeter. “Perhaps it would be wise to wait—”
“Nonsense,” Zeus barked. “All will celebrate my daughter—the first goddess born in our victory over the Titans.”
With a nod, Artemis disappeared from the hall.
Aphrodite knelt beside Demeter, whose expression had become wooden. With a touch of her hand, the stained linens vanished, replaced by pristine white cloth. Demeter’s rumpled chiton transformed into a flowing peplos embroidered with golden laurel leaves. Though dulled by exhaustion, Demeter’s eyes were grateful.
A moment later, Artemis returned. A host of gods and goddesses followed her, filling the hall with divine light and the hum of power.
Kore’s gaze swept over the gathering. Poseidon stood tall, his sea-blue eyes calm. Apollo shone beside his sister, clad in golden finery. Hermes flitted above the crowd, forever restless. Hephaestus leaned against a far column, his dark eyes watchful.
Then—Hades entered. Or rather, a younger Hades.
Kore stared.
He wore the same black and gold armor. His beard was slightly longer, untamed, and his skin bore the tawny warmth of the sun. But he moved with the same silent purpose, a shadow among Olympus’s brightness.
Kore looked up at the god standing beside her. “You were there,” she said quietly. “At my birth.”
“I was.”
“You were… different.”
He glanced toward his younger self. “I had not yet been named ruler of the Underworld. We cast lots shortly after your birth.”
The last to enter the hall were three stately figures—a trio of goddesses, lingering apart from the crowd.
“The first goddess born in a new age of peace,” Zeus announced triumphantly to the pantheon, holding the child up for all to see. “She will be titled Persephone, the goddess of spring. May she restore beauty and balance to the earth.”
A murmur of approval swept through the hall, punctuated by scattered applause and nodding smiles.
But then—
“No.”
The word was quiet. Almost fragile.
