Ashes to Asphodel

By the timeless ichor that flows through my veins, this story is true. Let it be a warning to mortals and gods alike, and to any who seek to rend the tapestry of the Fates. For there is no action without consequence, no joy without pain, no favor without sacrifice. Such is the bittersweet nature of the fruit of life and death.

Ashes to asphodel, dusk to dawn,

The cycle of souls goes ever on.

Persephone stood atop the massive dais in front of the temple, backlit by the ritual pyre and the night sky. The crowd below was a sea of slack-jawed faces, and she realized she must be a sight to behold. She smiled. By the end of the ritual, they would see her in a new light.

The drums began to pound in a slow thud, thud, thud, the beat reverberating in her chest. She stole a glance behind her, where Demeter perched upon the peak of the temple’s roof. She looked like a second pyre as her golden hair billowed and swirled in the pyre’s updraft. She chanted the rite, unaware of the surprise her daughter had in store for her.

Persephone tucked an errant lock of hair beneath her antlered headdress and resisted the urge to pull up the extremely low-cut collar of her dress. “There are fewer things more desirable than a ripe fruit out of reach,” Demeter had said before the ceremony, tugging down the bodice of Persephone’s dress until her ample cleavage nearly burst free. “Would that I could serve your role,” Demeter sighed longingly. “Oh well. We must fulfill the duty the Fates have assigned us.”

Persephone turned back to the crowd. They stretched all the way out across the fields, but avoided the looming edge of the Shadewood. Beyond it all, the towering silhouette of Olympus rose, tiny lights visible at its peak. She took a breath and began to dance.

At first, she proceeded the way she and her mother had rehearsed. Stepping along with the beat, she reached out her arms, spreading her fingers toward the mounds of soil scattered over the dais. The drums increased their pace.

She twisted a wrist and golden light ignited around her fingers. A vine sprung up. It twirled as it grew, as if dancing to the drums, and the crowd gasped in delight. In a span of seconds the vine budded and bloomed, then the flowers fell, plentiful clusters of grapes bubbling forth in their place. Applause and cheers echoed off the temple’s columns. The vine wrapped around her wrist and she raised it high, twirling her other wrist to conjure a second vine. The mortals shouted and cheered. “Let us taste your fruit!” A man at the base of the temple’s stone steps called.

She danced down the steps, grape-laden vines draped from each outstretched arm, and dangled the fruits over the crowd. The man who had shouted tipped his head back and lunged to bite a grape. His hood fell back, revealing shoulder-length blond hair and an annoyingly familiar face.

“I told you not to come back here, Apollo.” She strained to be heard over the drums and the buzz of the crowd.

“Easy, girl. You know I never miss a party.” He tried to snatch more grapes. She twirled out of his reach, dancing along the edge of the crowd, letting them paw at the vines. When they had plucked all the grapes, she climbed back up the temple steps.

Demeter’s chanting intensified, and so did the drumbeats. Persephone conjured sparkling strawberries, melons, and pumpkins, throwing them to the frenzied crowd. She grew her grapevines into the shape of a giant cornucopia. Then from the soil she coaxed trees, their boughs laden with olives, pistachios, figs, and pears. She swelled with pride as the branches arced out over the reaching hands of the throng. Her trees were much bigger than last year. She hoped Demeter noticed.

She glanced up at her mother. Demeter smiled down at her followers, eyes glimmering as they swept over the offering baskets. They were piled high with coins, silks, jewels, furs, cured meats. Her gaze landed on Persephone. Was it the glow of the pyre, or was that pride in her eyes?

This was it. Persephone threw herself into a new dance, the one she had rehearsed in secret. The crowd screamed wildly. Her arms twined like wild vines, her steps lithe. She raised a hand, curled her fingers into claws.

Brambles sprang up all across the platform, slashing the air with hooked thorns. At the center of the dais, a serpentine plant rose from the soil. It opened a gaping red maw ringed with needle-sharp teeth. The crowd drew back with a collective gasp.

There was a flash of metal and the sing of steel. Persephone’s creation fell, cleaved from its stem. The crowd roared, thinking it was part of the show. Demeter stood over the felled plant, sickle in hand, her golden eyes locked with Persephone’s. She snapped her fingers.

Six nymphs obediently scurried up onto the messy altar, carefully avoiding the brambles. As they began their own dance, Demeter took Persephone’s arm in a bruising grip and marched her inside the temple.

Once they were out of the crowd’s view, Demeter whirled to face her. “What in Tartarus was that?” Her voice echoed in the empty temple.

“I… I thought you would like it.” Persephone let the heavy headdress slide down over her eyes. She was a grown adult - she couldn’t let her mother see how dangerously close to tears she was.

“Like it?” Demeter’s voice cracked like a lash. “People want beauty. They want plump, toothsome fruit. They want perfection. Not -” she waved a hand. “- Whatever that monstrosity was.”

“My powers have grown since last year. I’ve been working on -”

“Is that why the farmers complain that their vineyards are half-finished? Why I keep finding untouched swathes of wheat sprouts? You’ve been shirking your duties to invent beastly horrors?”

Persephone could not shrink into herself any further. She wished she could grow a giant pistachio shell and curl up inside it. “I’m sorry, mother.”

“And what am I to do with your apology? Wear it as a trophy? Stuff it in a bugle and toot it from the peak of Olympus?”

Persephone pushed the headdress up her forehead, imploring Demeter with her gaze. “If my power keeps growing like this, I’ll burst. I want - I need to use it for more than just tending the fields.”

Demeter’s sunlight-colored eyes chilled. “You need more?” She spread her arms like wings. “You’re not satisfied with all this?”

“No - I mean, yes, of course I am, it’s just -”

Demeter grabbed her jaw, forcing her daughter to meet her eyes. “We are the envy of Olympus because of your power. My coffers overflow, my influence spans entire continents. But that’s not enough for you.” She shoved her. Persephone stumbled back, but kept her footing.

Her nerves sparked like dry kindling. “That’s not true - But I know I’m capable of better. Let me learn new ways to use my power. I won’t disappoint you.”

Demeter’s imperious gaze told her that she already had. “Have you been sneaking into the Shadewood? Is that where you got your head full of horrid ideas?”

“No, mother.” Guilt pierced her gut. For months she had been practicing in the shadows of the wood’s edge in secret.

“Shifting?”

Persephone looked at her sandals. “No.” Also a lie.

Demeter’s narrowed gaze made it clear she saw through her daughter’s words. “I think it fitting that your Nymphs receive three lashes each for your shameful performance tonight.”

“Mother, no!” Persephone gripped Demeter’s sleeve. “I’ll take the lashes instead.”

Demeter huffed a laugh. “And ruin this perfect skin? No no.” Demeter shook her head, something akin to pity in her gaze. “It pains me, my love, but I’ve been far too easy on you.” She traced her fingers over the tears on Persephone’s cheek. “The Fates have blessed you with a divine duty. The gift of creation. There is no power greater than this.”

With that she freed her sleeve from Persephone’s grip and left the temple, her footsteps echoing with finality on the stone.

Suddenly the headdress was unbearably heavy. With difficulty, Persephone tugged it off. It was an intricate work of wicker and goat skin, bound by leather straps and adorned with saffron crocuses. A pair of antlers protruded from it. Her hair, the same shade of pink as the saffron blooms, was matted and tangled from hours under the heavy thing. She tried to run her fingers through her locks, but only succeeded in getting them stuck.

I’ve never resisted my divine duty, she thought. But is that the only thing the Fates have woven into the tapestry of my future?

Her legs carried her out of the temple. She covered her eyes as she emerged into the blinding light of the pyre. The mortals reveled raucously, intoxicated by the harvest wine and the rhythm of the drums.

A familiar voice said beside her, “Here.”

She turned to the tall, willowy Nymph with pointed features and large, dark eyes. A curtain of blue hair flowed down her back. She held out a clay jug and goblet.

“Sion, you are ever my savior.” Persephone ignored the goblet and took the jug, tipping the whole thing to her mouth. She hadn’t realized how parched she was. She drank until water spilled from the corners of her lips, then gave the jug back to Sion. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and smiled at her friend. “Thank you.”

Persephone had grown up with the Nymphs, but Sion was the only one who was still a friend to her. Persephone couldn’t blame the others for their coldness toward her. Over the years, they had grown resentful of being whipped every time she displeased Demeter.

“The next dance will start soon,” said Sion.

“Yes, just give me a moment…” The thought of plastering false merriment on her face and dancing before the crowd made her legs feel leaden. She would return to the fields at sunrise, as she always did. She would grow the crops until sunset. And the same thing the next day, and the next. “Actually, I’m feeling unwell.”

“Shall I brew some tea?”

“No, I’d prefer to sleep. Which way did my mother go?”

Sion pointed to the temple roof, where Demeter stood like a golden statue.

Persephone gave Sion one last weary smile and took a few steps toward the temple. When she looked up at Demeter, the goddess floated to the ground with the easy grace of a dandelion seed. Persephone had to quell a pang of mournful envy. How lovely it would be to fly.

Demeter landed in front of her, hands clasped patiently. “Are you still troubled?”

“No, Mother. But I think I need some rest. I want to be fresh for tomorrow’s duties.”

A benevolent smile softened Demeter’s features. “Of course. Pleasant dreams.” She turned away and rose into the air.

“Wait - Mother?”

Demeter twisted. “Yes, dear one?”

“Would you love me still… if…” She suddenly felt as small as a grain of wheat. “If I stopped using my powers?”

“Oh, my little fawn!” Demeter threw her arms around her daughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you ever stop using such a useful skill?” She laughed.

Persephone chuckled weakly into her mother’s shoulder. “You’re right. I’m being silly.”

With a kiss to the top of Persephone’s head, Demeter let her go. Persephone watched her mother ascend once more, then wandered into the temple’s cool, cavernous darkness.

Inside, she leaned against a marble column, letting the smooth stone cool her forehead. She had worked tirelessly her whole life at this duty. But, shamefully, she was not satisfied. Something within her yearned to grow, the seeds of unrealized potential.

People want beauty. They want perfection.

Anything else is a monstrosity.

But if pleasing her mother meant sacrificing those seeds of hope, maybe she would rather be monstrous.

Something snapped within her like a severed stem, and she knew what she had to do.

***