aithne | the story Hecate has to tell

It is late, the dogs are sleeping at my feet, and I sit by the dying fire. Gods don't need to sleep, and I never picked up the habit. The desert bitch stirs in her sleep and moans a little, the noise of a dog well-satisfied with her life. They did well today, and the fire stirs in them once more. Their howls during the battle were terrible, even if there was no power behind the sound yet.

Soon. It will come.

Now I know where my dagger is, my bronze knife that was first lifted from the fire in Lagina That Was. I will reclaim it and with it the measure of my power that I invested in it so long ago. With it, I will easily be able to open the doors between Here and There once more. Just on the other side of the dogs a girl sleeps, her bright hair gone to polished copper in the red light. She stirs a memory of another like her, another brilliant and tireless mind. Another girl who defied her mother and chose her own place.

She is almost the age Persephone was when she came to the underworld for the first time, and it pleases me that yet again I will have a shining child as a companion for a time. If I remember nothing else, I remember her, the maiden, the Kore who would become the Iron Queen. I bore my torches before her, leading her ascent to the surface, guarding her from the wrath of Demeter.

Bitch, Demeter called me. She spat in my face, and I laughed. I was the Queen of the Dead, my power could flay flesh from bone, and Demeter's power held no sway over me. I raised my torches with a flourish.

I return to you your daughter.

Demeter's face twisted. But not in the same state in which she was taken.

Is that any of my concern?

Persephone’s lips were so red, and behind her small teeth she held a mouthful of secrets. She looked at her mother, and she smiled. She said nothing; she did not have to. Persephone’s power was always blood, maidenhead broken and heart’s blood spilled. She would never bow before her mother again.

A brilliant child, indeed.

There is trouble in this thing I choose to call my soul, though as a goddess I do not have one, not exactly. The badger god has departed, left for the baking sands of his native land. I had grown used to him. The one who has joined us in his place is a thunder god from the far north, blond and bearded and brash. He will drive me mad, with his voice like storms and his constant boasting.

And yet—

A memory stirs, an unwilling one.

Let me in, let me have a place, or I tell your wife what you have done. And do not think that Hera will find me a target as easy as poor Leto, as Semele, as golden-crowned Io.

He is dead now, and Hera too, and if you listen to the stories they will say that I have never loved. I bear no children; that does not mean that my heart is as barren as my womb is rumored to be.

Demeter's voice, again. The smaller of the dogs twitches and rolls over. This is no place to raise a child, in the lightless realms.

I remember feeling bewildered. Demeter and I had things in common, both originally goddesses of the wilderness and growing things, and sometimes we would meet at twilight, on the border between our kingdoms. She was kind, always, but now her blue eyes narrowed. A child who never sees the light will grow up as spindly as a light-starved sapling. And we both know the child will never be acknowledged.

No need for acknowledgement, I said. This child is mine.

Then there were storms in Demeter's eyes. You promised me, once, that if I supported your cause you would grant me a favor, when I needed one. I need this child; Zeus promises to defend me against Hera if I bear him one. This is my favor.

I keep my promises, always.

Demeter drew the child intact out of my gently swelling belly, finding her a new home in her own womb. I returned to the underworld, to dwell in silence with my friend and ally Hades. Demeter bore Zeus a daughter and named her Persephone, Proserpine, Persephatta. She grew tall and strong and cheerful.

Sometimes, the arrow returns to the bow. I would watch over Persephone when she left her mother's side, when she would go walking in the darkness, looking for something she could not name. I knew what she was looking for, but I was also wary of my promise. I would not interfere. I only went so far as to assist her when she began the study of magic, and then only in small ways, leaving a book or two, a ritual knife, a bone cup.

When the story says that Persephone was picking flowers when she met Hades for the first time, they do not mention that she was gathering night-blooming flowers for a spell to open the pathways to the realms of the dead. They do not mention that I had sent Hades to watch over her in my place. They do not mention that Hades, who rarely saw the surface world, forgot to clothe himself that once in unseeing.

Her lips were already as red as if she had been eating pomegranate seeds, and her hands were fragrant with the scent of the blossoms she was harvesting. He did not kidnap her; he did not have to. She insisted on coming down to where he lived, to escape black-robed Demeter and a role she was being molded for that she did not fit.

There was trouble, after that, and eventually I returned Persephone to the goddess who bore her. Persephone had taken willingly of the fruits of the underworld—all of them. Because of it, Demeter's power over her had diminished. When she was with us, Hades was pleasant. He smiled, even laughed sometimes. When she was gone, I would take to patrolling the far borders of the underworld, avoiding my friend in his rages and sulks.

His sword lies at my feet, now. He and Persephone are both gone, and when I return to my throne it will be into deep silence.

To be marooned in a body that is sometimes all too human is a terrible thing. If your heart beats, it can also break. If you grow used to people, you can miss them when they go. If you come across a golden-haired child, sometimes you will think too much on her resemblance to what you lost.

Sometimes you’ll think about how much thunder gods resemble each other, and remember how it ended with the first one, a cautionary tale. Then you’ll stir the fire, rise carefully to avoid waking dogs or child, and bring out your latest project, a book of spells to soothe the dying.

I absorb myself in creation, and ignore Demeter’s long shadow on my existence.