Page 14 of Aïdes the Unseen
The night had been so many things, ripe with joy and danger, full of beauty and threats wrapped in silk and honey. Apollo’s music still echoed in my bones. Ares’ voice still lingered at the back of my neck. Hephaestus’ warmth sat beside my own, like coals that hadn’t quite gone out.
And yet… none of them held me.
I was Kore, maiden of spring, daughter of the harvest. But the girl who returned from the dark was not the same one who had entered it. I had stood between revel and war. I had not broken.
The temple rose ahead, white and still in the night. My mother’s being pulsed inside it, steady, vast, undeniable.
Hermes stopped walking.
“You’re not coming in?”
He shook his head. “Too many expectations in there.”
I nodded. “Thank you, then.”
“For what?”
“For walkingnearme,” I said.
He laughed, soft and genuine. “Anytime.” He vanished like breath from a mirror.
I climbed the last few steps alone, the stone cool beneath my feet.
Inside, the offerings waited: bread braided with herbs, apples and squash, jars of honey, bowls of beans and barley. All for her. For Demeter.
Mother.
The turning of the harvest meant soon it would be time for planting again. I wondered—not for the first time—when they would start leaving offerings for me. Did I even want them to do that?
Chapter
Three
KORE
The planting season always began with rain.
Not the kind that storms or threatens, but rather softens the skin of the world. It was petal-warm and silver-laced, quiet as a lullaby hummed into earth. It soaked into the soil without apology, waking seeds from their hush, urging roots to remember their shape. The air smelled green, the way only spring could: alive, becoming, moresoonthannow.
I liked the rain best in these first weeks. It made everything feel new again.
Already, the lambs were finding their legs, tumbling soft and wide-eyed through pastures spangled with clover. The sprites had begun weaving blooms into their hair—narcissus, crocus, snowdrop—giggling as they danced between puddles and bees. Even the trees seemed eager, lifting newborn buds toward the clouds like little offerings. The whole world shimmered with wanting.
This was my season. I loved it all.
The ache of new life. The dirt under my nails. The push and pull of sprout against stone. I wandered barefoot through fieldsnot yet tamed, my fingers trailing over stalks just beginning to green. Everything I touched bloomed a little brighter, just enough to know I had passed through. Just enough to be loved.
My mother was meant to meet me here. She always did. This was our domain in tandem. She who made thingsgrow, and I who made themfeelit.
But today, I was alone.
She had been gone since the morning, summoned by some divine council or another. The type where tempers frayed and seasons bent if egos weren’t soothed. She hadn’t said when she’d return.
I didn’t mind, not at first.
I liked being alone here, especially in the rain. There were no rules in solitude, no need to beperfectly light, perfectly joyful, perfectly Kore. The land loved me even when I was quiet.
Even when I wandered to the farthest field, where the lavender hadn’t risen yet and the sky broke open in silver threads.
