Rose and Asphodel

No Ground to Anchor Them

Hermes found her in the outdoor training ring, where she always went when she couldn't sit still. There was still no grass nearby—Demeter had burned it away when Persephone was born—but at least she could stand in the sun here.

Usually she could only come three times a week, but her mother hadn't stopped Persephone from stomping outside to have a go at the practice dummies.

That had been four hours ago.

When Hermes landed in front of her, still careful to avoid coming within the house's magic boundaries, Persephone didn't even notice him. It took three rounds of clearing his throat to get her attention.

"Persephone," he said at last, once she had stopped pummelling the heavy bag.

She turned to him, chest heaving. Sweat coated her skin and had soaked through her shirt. The twilight chill began to seep into Persephone's bare arms, but she ignored it.

The look she turned on Hermes must have been nothing short of murderous, because he took a step back.

"I'm trapped here," she said. "I am trapped here with no way out, and my mother will go to war with Artemis before she lets me leave. What the hell is so awful about letting me outside? I am—"

Hermes tried to cut her off, but she held up a hand. Something in her face must have silenced him.

"I am exhausted," she said. "My roots have no ground to anchor them. Cement and dead wood are not enough. I need something more than sunlight and emptiness."

She strode to the iron fence that surrounded the practice area on the three sides that were not connected to the mansion. Hermes stayed silent, glowing subtly in the dusk, as Persephone removed the wraps from her hands.

Slowly, carefully, she reached out, and stuck her index finger into the barrier beyond the fence.

Excruciating, mind-numbing pain shot up her arm and into her mind. There was too much. It was like staring at her mother—like staring into the sun. It was as though Zeus himself had grabbed her by the arm and twisted.

She pulled her hand back with tears in her eyes.

"You don't have to keep doing that," Hermes told her. "It's not as though she's going to forget and let the barrier fall."

"I know. I just need to feel as though I'm trying. Even if it's pointless, I can't just give up on leaving."

Hermes stepped toward her, although he had never been good at providing comfort. He was dressed for a festival, clad in green suit pants and an open white shirt with sleeves that billowed. Once, long ago, the gods had worn chitons, but they adapted to the changing times.

Persephone couldn't help but let Hermes' gesture warm her heart. He had left the festival to visit her, on this night of all nights. Maybe he did have some genuine sympathy in him.

"You don't have to give up on leaving," he told her.

Persephone's heart dropped into her stomach. "What?"

"I'm here to get you out," he said. "Tonight."

She stared at Hermes, dumbstruck, and for a moment, all she could hear were the mosquitoes and Hermes' quick, sharp breaths. Was he scared? It would make sense. Demeter might have been a harvest goddess, but she could kill the whole of the mortal world in a season if she wanted.

And Hermes was risking that. For Persephone.

"How?" she asked. Her voice sounded strangled to her own ears.