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As Helios begins his descent and Selene rises upon a silver chariot, night falls like a blanket over the sky.
In a garden tucked away in a hidden, forgotten corner of Greece, flowers sway and birds continue to chirp. Though the land outside bears the scars of winter: soft white snow, hard ice which falls from the cliffs in shards; here the world is green still. Pumpkins grow in sets of four, vines curl around their sticks, ripe with grapes, flowers out of season bloom with pollen for bees who should have long since fallen asleep in their hives. Spring spreads her arms all around.
Now, however, Spring waits, wringing her hands. Perhaps, she thinks belatedly as she worries her bottom lip, she has miscounted the days. Maybe there has been a lapse in judgement, a realization that comes at the tail end of it all which starts with: actually… She attempts to steady her breathing, to steel herself for the inevitably she has always waited for. When you run away, you cannot expect someone to run with you. Not just because you asked. Not just because you loved. Still, she muses, forces herself to think as rationally as she can, it is not as though she pressured. She asked gently as hands threaded through her hair, preparing herself for the no which would accompany such a stupid, silly question. Will I still see you? She had asked, like a child clinging to their childhood with chubby hands. Of course you will, had been the answer. But what if that has changed now? What if, what if–
Persephone breathes deep through her nose, and the entire garden seems to breathe with her. She is being foolish, irrational. Less like the goddess she is and more like the young girl she had once fancied herself as being. No, she will wait, and if that which she waits for does not happen, she will nod to herself and return to business as usual. Except if it doesn’t happen, what is left for her? What remains after everything is gone?
“Stop that,” she hisses, slapping her cheeks gently with her hands, “You’re being foolish.”
Silent, she waits, wringing her hands to the point she is almost surprised they don’t tie themselves into knots. Smoothing down the fabric of her dress, she flattens her hands against her thighs, turns to begin tapping her foot instead. There is always an anxiety which comes before this tradition– even as they both know that is what it is: tradition. When the seasons change, when winter is meant to turn to spring, even as it may not here, the night will come. She will thread her fingers through the spring’s hair, and they will breathe as one. Persephone wants to bury herself in the soil with her plants, wishes she could disappear with all her anxiety and burrow with the worms. Foolish, she is being foolish.
“My Queen,”
Calm washes over her, settles over her shoulders like a blanket, and Persephone turns, laughs, rushes towards the Night Herself. In her hands, Nyx’s face is cool to the touch, a contrast to the warmth of Persephone’s spring touched hands. Her features– unchanged, always unchanged– remain a stark contrast in this world of greens and pinks and yellows. She is starlight, she is the darkest parts of the night sky, she is wishes made on stars.
“I am not your queen anymore, my night.” Persephone breathes out, thumb tracing patterns over the spattering of constellations across Nyx’s cheeks. “I am simply Persephone.”
Two figures remain hidden in this small section of the world, time distorted and shifted so that only they know it has passed. Come dawn, Nyx will be gone, and Persephone will allow her body to contort itself into the space she left upon the bed– but for now, they are together. That is enough. Persephone’s gaze flickers across Nyx’s face, her hair, every part of her she can see, in hopes of memorizing that which she has not seen since the last season change. She feels free, light, at home. This place she has carved into the world is her own, but it is lonely, sometimes. So there is this, and this is hers, will always be hers, no matter how long the eternal winter spans outside, no matter how seasons change and gods change– they will remain here, together, endlessly.
“Then allow me,” Nyx smiles, hand moving to Persephone’s waist in a way which makes her shiver, “to simply be Nyx.”
Persephone nods, relenting finally to drag Nyx’s face down, their lips meeting in a clash of warmth and desire. Nyx is gentle, soft– she touches as though she is mapping Persephone for the thousandth time. Persephone is not gentle, she takes and takes. Her teeth bite into the soft skin of Nyx’s lips, hands moving up to lace through her hair and tug, desperately, possessively. This is mine, she repeats to herself, this is mine. This moment, this feeling, the heat blooming in her gut, that is hers and hers alone. She drags Nyx backwards, away from the watching eyes of the moon, towards the cabin. Together they stumble inwards, laughing when the door slams a little louder than they meant, and when Persephone picks Nyx apart piece by piece upon a bed they have shared thousands of times, gasps fill the previously silent space. Quiet pleas, desperate– voice hitching, hips bucking, a quickening before–
“Persephone.”
After, they fall beside one another, and Persephone turns on her side to look at Nyx once more. Some desperate part of her wants to ask her to stay, just a little longer. To be there when night turns to day, to see the garden in its brightest form– to know the beauty of the flowers. The asphodels and roses, the pansies and poppies; to see how the melons and pumpkins flourish beside one another despite the difference in seasons; to watch as the smaller animals emerge from their hibernation, tentative steps leading them to Persephone’s home. That part of her is foolish, knows Nyx cannot stay. They will notice her absence, know she has been gone longer than she is meant to. What good is a secret when it is no longer kept? Persephone sighs, tucks her hand beneath her cheek.
Nyx looks at her then, smiles at her, turns to face her so they are perfectly mirrored. “It will not be long.”
Long enough, Persephone wants to say, but doesn’t. She nods, hums, “Tell me everything that’s happened. How’s Cerberus?”
“Well fed.” Nyx laughs, the sound like a cool embrace on a warm night. “He lounges upon more and more extravagant bedding with each passing day. Zagreus has bought him another toy, as well. Hades is keeping as he usually does– drowning himself in work, as though the passing of the days does not bother him. Zagreus, loathe as he would be to hear it, is not so different. He struggles to find you here after the first time, but the pact is a difficult thing to overcome.”
The mention of them is like a dagger to the chest, and Persephone is a bleeding heart. She takes Nyx’s hand, squeezes gently. She is grateful to know that which has happened– to know her son is safe, even in the broadest of senses. That Nyx is there to love him, even if Persephone is not. Nyx’s hand warms in hers, squeezing in return.
“There is… someone upon Thanatos’ mind, as well. The god of war, I do believe. Though he would never admit it, not to me. And Hypnos has become closer to Zagreus, they are true friends now, I believe.” Nyx’s voice is fond, gentle. Persephone watches her as though she is ready to disappear. “They have missed you. We all have.”
Persephone can do nothing but nod, press herself closer to Nyx. There is an ache in her chest which will never truly fade, but when she allows Nyx’s gentleness to wash over her. When she allows herself to be picked apart in turn, there is a dulling to the ache. Later, she will tell Nyx of all the things she has done, all the things she has seen and heard. She has finished the books Nyx once brought her, she should ask for more. But here, now, they are two souls mingling and clashing into one, discovering the thousands of ways in which they can learn one another anew. Persephone breathes, Nyx breathes with her. When she guides Nyx to that sweetest spot of her, she comes undone beneath her. She is home, she is safe, she is loved and wanted.
She feels the moment dawn comes, when Nyx places the gentlest of kisses to her forehead, and slips back the way she came. Persephone lays there, curled on her side, fingers tracing the patterns Nyx’s body left behind. She will not be disheartened, she will watch the seasons change and when next they do, she will be ready. She will wait, anxious as she always is, for the Night to return to her once more. Brushing herself off, Persephone stands, and sets about the day.
It is a normal day, the warmth of the night still clinging to her, and there is a silence to her garden that she comes to love once more. A silence which is hers, just as Nyx was. A silence which–
–is disturbed by the sonorous sounds of a boy stepping on a garden rake. Perhaps the seasons will not be so quiet after all.