Reclaiming the Goddesses: Persephone

,.-=-.,,.-=-., Does rewriting the stories of the goddesses return to them the power that was taken by the rise of greedy men? ,.-=-.,,.-=-.,

Persephone leaned in, her eyes ablaze.

“They’ll ask why you stayed,” Hades said to her, averting his gaze to pluck a pomegranate, freshly split on the tree. He felt the hair raise up on the back of his neck.

She reached out with a hand made pale from months spent beneath the world and scooped out several seeds. As she brought them to her lips, the sanguine juice dripped down her steady fingers, and then across her chin.

Persephone moved in closer, her mouth near his ear now. Something within him tightened, the lightest trace of panic that he’d never felt before in the presence of a woman. “I’ll tell them,” she growled as her lips curved up into a smile and her hands slithered up into his ribs. “That I am the Queen of the dead, that my kingdom welcomes all, and that I am served by a god who had to steal a woman because none would come willingly.”

She pressed her fingers to his face and moved back to look into his eyes, wide vacant pools of regret.

A small song, sharp and broken like a dying bird, moved up from her chest as she stepped back and bit into the flesh of the pomegranate. Red juice spurted across her face.

“Now you’re mine, motherfucker.”

The little song became a wicked laughter that bellowed into every corner of the Underworld, and the most vile and poisonous of beasts took cover, for they’d never heard such a sound. The dead wailed, the river Styx trembled, and the earth above quaked in wintry darkness.

Persephone would rise.

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