But Persephone had not been born for a pure and virginal life, unlike Athena, unlike Artemis, and if she could not accept Hades’ love, perhaps she could accept Hades’ fingers on her sex and Hades’ mouth at her throat.

She did not think to complain when Hades bit her, bruising her; she was beyond thought at that point, her mind spiraling out, her consciousness bursting into an ocean of pleasure.

She savored the moment, basking in it, for once unencumbered by shame or doubt. She leaned her head against Hades’ shoulder, her arms loosely twined around her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair.

Hades clasped Persephone to her as if she’d never let go.

That would not do. “You’re crushing me,” Persephone said.

“You can breathe.”

Persephone rolled her eyes and squirmed, flipping them so that Hades lay on the table and Persephone hovered above her.

Hades looked... different. There was a haunted cast to her face, a fragile translucency to her skin. Her hair was atramentous against the myrtle, spilling out around her like a halo.

She was wearing too many clothes.

Her peplos was held at the shoulders by seams, not fibulae. Persephone took no small joy in ripping the fabric, ignoring Hades’ anguished gasp.

“It will mend,” Persephone said, peeling the fabric down to uncover Hades’ strophion. “Your rooms are full of these.”

“Coan silk, Persephone!”

Persephone wrinkled her nose. “Why would you want something made from bugs when you could have good, honest linen?”

“It dyes better. Black is difficult to set.” Hades sat up and untied her strophion herself, as if to prevent Persephone from destroying more of her clothing.

It was the first time Persephone had properly seen this part of her undressed, in the light. What she’d thought to be a birthmark was instead a long, jagged streak of scar tissue that ran from below her right breast to her left hip, wider and thicker over her hip. It had long since healed, shinier and paler than the surrounding skin.

Divine flesh healed well, and even the worst injuries responded to treatment by sorcery. Persephone had never seen such a scar on another goddess. “What happened?” she asked. She reached out and lightly touched it, her fingertips seeking out the shift in textures.

“A memory from the war,” Hades said.

There had been many wars but few terrible enough to leave such a mark. “The Titanomachy?” she asked.

Hades nodded, her features tense as Persephone explored the mark with her fingers.

“Why do you keep it?”

“As a reminder,” Hades said, her eyes closed.

“A reminder?”

“That my failures are not simply my own but shape the world around me.”

Persephone did not know what to say. “Is that why you work so hard?”

“Harvest comes but once a year. Humans die every day.”

“That’s no excuse. Your scribes are clever. They could do more, if you let them.”

“Our burdens are not for them, Persephone.”