Note from the authoress: Just in case I forgot to mention it before, I'm basing the chapters about Persephone's legend on the Homeric hymn to Demeter. Whenever possible I'm hoping to base other chapters on other ancient sources, like The Iliad, The Odyssey or Aeneid.

Also I've recently updated my retelling of the story of Semele. Unlike this story it's written as a novel instead of a series of one chapter stories.

I'd love your thoughts on my retelling of Semele and her fate, if you've the time to leave comments. I'm having fun writing it, as it's a combination of ideas from sources like Ovid and Homer, and best of all it's based on Handel's gorgeous opera named for the ancient Theban princess.

I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Thanks for reading.

I have ordered my attendants to withdraw and not disturb me until morning.

My quarters are in darkness, save for the light of a single candle at my bedside and the dying embers of the small fire I ordered lit at my daughters' entreaties.

They do not know that nothing can warm me now, that I care not for the needs of my body nor the sustenance that food can give.

There is little left in our kingdom now, and so I have commanded that my portion of food be given to others whenever I send away the silver trays brought to my door.

Many question the source of this frigid darkness which has cloaked the earth, causing all warmth to flee and countless crops to die.

Some believe that Demeter is angry, that in her wroth she has commanded that nothing flourish on the earth.

The cause of such rage they can only guess at, according to the knowledge which tales of the gods provide and the scraps of information their priests choose to divulge.

Only I and my family know the truth, and it is more tragic than any of the stories bards have concocted as an attempt to understand this pointless suffering of humanity.

Perhaps I even feel guilt, for the fact that unknowingly I played a role in the ruin of my kingdom's hopes, and broke a mother's heart in one futile act of desperation.

The wavering flame of the candle illuminates my face, and the object which lies across my knees.

I clutch it desperately; some instinctual part of my mind urging me to never let it out of my sight.

My fingers trace the delicate embroidery I worked so hard to finish, patterns I have surely memorized over these dark hours of my choice to remain in enforced exile.

Hot tears of grief fall onto the silent folds of this blanket and I let my head rest upon it as I mourn afresh for my little one.

Beneath my cheek its texture is smooth and soft, and I wish that by strength of will alone I might reclaim the child my gift once kept warm.

How happy I was when my son was born, for my husband and I had long ago abandoned the hope that the gods would bless our kingdom with an heir.

I did all I could to keep healthy and rested as the birth drew near, and in the secret places of my mind dared to hope that the child would be a boy.

The labor was long and difficult, and I know that if custom had allowed it my husband would have been with me during those hours of struggle and anxiety.

When the child was put into my arms, I thanked the gods that they had heeded my secret prayers, for he was truly the strong son I had hoped for for many years.

Together my husband and I looked with pride and affection upon our long awaited heir, as I cradled him close wrapped in the blanket I had made.

My daughters were excited at the birth of their brother, and eagerly took up their role as sisters and playmates to their little brother.

I took care to give them each reassurances of my love, often spending an extra hour with my girls when court duties were over for the day.

I refused outright to have a nurse care for my little prince, in direct defiance of the customs of our kingdom.

For too long had I waited for this moment when a son would be born to become heir to the throne of Ellysis.

Normally I am not one who chooses to break with tradition, but my son's care was a matter on which I would not hear any arguments. My husband remarked on my determination, saying that he rarely saw me command the servants with such authority and conviction.

Perhaps Athena or Artemis lent me the courage to speak so boldly, but whatever the reason I am grateful to whatever power gave me strength to insist that I alone would care for my child.

For those memories are now more precious to me than all the wealth of the royal treasury, moments I will prize as some of the most joyful times of my life.

Our subjects rejoiced with us when we announced the birth of a male heir, confident that their little prince would grow into a strong and wise ruler.

If only we had known then of the strange events which would soon take him from us, to a kingdom where all mortals pass according to the will of the Moirae.

That day was like a thousand others. Automatically I rose to begin my duties, never dreaming that I would soon meet a being who would forever change the fate of my kingdom forever.

She came to us at sunset, urged to stay beneath my roof at the request of my four daughters.

Never will I forget my first sight of the goddess in the shape of a mortal woman bent with sorrow and pain. I saw not the dignity and strength she wore like a cloak, nor the knowledge of ages which her dark eyes possessed.

No, I saw only a woman in need of comfort and xenia, and accordingly I offered her the position of nurse to my little son.

I watched as she took him into her arms, held him with such care and tenderness as to satisfy the most anxious of mothers.

There was such fierce joy in her eyes as she cradled my child, a look I knew well, for it had often lent my countenance a dignity and beauty which any immortal would be proud to ware.

I trusted this stranger completely, confident that I had judged her character aright and that she would make my baby's safety her first concern.

Ah if only I had known then, that it was no old woman I had welcomed under my roof, but a goddess ageless and wise beyond mortal understanding who was seeking her lost daughter.

But how could I know?

For she had walked amongst mortals for untold millennia, knew how to conceal her true glory from even the most observant and wise of the race of men.

Only one thing caused me to wonder. The change was subtle, and perhaps only I who knew my child so intimately was able to sense the work of divine hands.

Each time my little one was placed in my arms by his nurse, I sensed that he was clothed in a strange and living glory.

At first I dismissed these impressions, thinking that Asclepius had chosen to bless my child with health and strength.

But gradually I realized that I only felt these sensations each time my boy was handed to me by his nurse.

And so I determined to discover the cause of this strange good fortune.

I ordered trusted guards to keep watch over the prince's chamber, and inform me if anything was amiss.

And one night I heard a gentle tap at my chamber door. Slipping noiselessly from the bed I crossed my chamber, praying that my husband would remain asleep.

I opened the door to be greeted by the tall form of our captain of the guards. At once I knew I had been right to suspect that something was wrong, for the grim set of my friend's jaw and the way he gripped his sword was an attitude I had glimpsed only on the eve of war.

Swiftly he told me of what he had seen, of how in secret this nurse placed my child in the heart of the fire with calm and precise movements.

Immediately I rushed to my son's chamber, and froze in the doorway as I saw the truth of my friend's claims.

With a cry of horror I rushed forward, only to be halted by the outstretched hand of this being who I knew now was no mortal nurse. With awe I watched as she shed her disguise, until she stood before me a goddess filled with anger.

She cast my child to the floor, telling me who she was and of her plan to reward my kindness by granting my child immortality.

The slightest hint of sorrow filled her rich voice as she said that because I had interrupted her work my boy was even now being taken to the realm of Hades.

Drawn by my heartbroken cries my daughters rushed into the room, to the side of their little brother they loved so dearly and had spent many hours entertaining.

In vain did they try to revive him. I watched their efforts still frozen in shock and grief, horrified at how swiftly death had come for my little one.

Even now as I sit here in darkness, I cannot help believing that the guilt of his death is mine alone to carry. Had I not interfered my boy would have been counted amongst the immortals.

Instead I prepared him for the funeral rites with loving care, kept watch with my husband and daughters as his little body was placed on the funeral pyre and consumed by eager flames.

And unlike those other occasions when fire had touched my boy, there were no immortal hands to withdraw him whole and unharmed, no divine voice to speak words of gentle reassurance and gift my little one with endless youth and strength.

Since the funeral feast I have taken no nourishment, and all hope has forsaken my life.

Ah goddess how alike are our fates now, for though you possess wisdom and power you are still first a mother in mourning for her child.

You and I both sit alone, you in the hope that great Zeus will command the lord of death to return your Persephone, and I beseeching Hades to care for the soul of my little one until I join him in Elysium.

I know not whether you hear my thoughts lady of the harvest, but even though your coming turned the bright fires of my joy to ashes, still I share in your sorrow.

If only I had known. If only you had spoken to me sooner of your true purpose.

But who am I a mortal woman to question a goddess in secret, to demand if only in my thoughts the right to be heard and recognized, not just as another human but a mother who misses her child.

Still I will not put aside these thoughts, nor ask for your pardon if they kindle anger afresh within your heart.

You immortal gods who are so like the elements and forces you command, do you never look upon mortals as nothing more than worshipers or sources for amusement?

Do you never seek to question the workings of the Moirae, to notice the subtle things which connect our world to yours?

Demeter you possess divine strength and power I could never hope to wield, and yet you are like me a woman bent with grief.

Something stirs within me as I let my thoughts wander, something I have chosen to forget in the midst of my sorrow.

The sound of my husband's voice and my daughters entreaties to open my door recalls times where I ruled with strength and purpose, determined to be a queen who would not be forgotten even when death came to claim my soul.

Where is that strong queen now?

She has fled with my boy's spirit to the realms of death, and nothing will ever recall her from that place of shadows.

So I answer that voice which urges me to respond to my family's pleas, try to silence it with a hundred explanations each as weak as the last.

But it will not be silenced. Slowly I feel my forgotten fire returning. Only a small blaze as yet, but I know that with the support of my kin and as I return to the duties of ruling it will soon be restored to its former glory.

I gather what strength I still possess and stand tall, once more a daughter of kings and the pride of my ancestors.

I open the door to my family, and receive their embraces eagerly, as one lost in the desert might drink deeply from a spring of cool refreshing water after discovering an oasis.

I take food and drink, and at last prepare myself to once again wear my crown and sit at my husband's side.

As I take my place on my throne the thought comes to me. What if by this one act of defiance I a mortal queen have done what a goddess has not dared, conquered sorrow by accepting the offered strength and love of her kin.

You Olympians may consider humanity nothing more than feeble creations, good only for amusement or the increase of your own glory through story or song.

Great Zeus knows I wish that I had never given my boy into the care of an immortal, but there is one thing which this tragedy has taught me. And it is a truth which I suspect will remain hidden from immortal sight as long as the gods choose to underestimate our worth.

We may not possess the power to alter nature's course, or rouse passion or command the rains to fall. But we possess a strength grounded in our choice to live fiercely, gloriously, drawing upon the love of friends and family whenever our will falters.

And that is a power which more than equals anything a deity can summon.

So think on this lady of the harvest, as you sit and mourn alone, too stubborn to relent and bless the earth once more.

I know what drives your grief, and gods know I sympathize with your loss. But as you sit in the temple my people have built at your command, know that I, Metaneira a mortal queen and mother have done what you have not found the courage to do.

I have put aside my grief for the sake of my husband and children, so that I might help my people until you lift the curse of endless winter from the earth.

I would never dare speak these thoughts aloud, and perhaps you will strike me down for speaking so boldly, but I must say what is in my heart.

It is not lord Hades who is responsible for the deaths of so many mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, and especially the precious children which have died the cruel death of starvation.

No it is you, Demeter who is the cause of this suffering, your grief and fury which prompt Atropos to sever so many threads before their time.

I lay each death at your door lady of the harvest, and hope that in time you will make the choice I struggled through the darkness of bereavement to realize.

As one mother to another I now make this request of you. Look beyond your sufferings to the torments of humanity because you have chosen to punish us for the rash act of one god.

Remember your duty to mankind and to nature, and the creatures of the earth who look to you for nourishment.

And remember the children who have done you no wrong, and the mortal mothers whose grief equals your own each time a child is taken to Elysium.