Mother’s voice cut through my skin, burrowing into a part of me no one else could touch. Not Adonis, not Hades, no one. I looked at her, and the agony I saw in place of Mother—
A lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t thought it possible for this to hurt anyone more than Hades, but it had never occurred to me that Mother might still care. She’d walked away from me. She’d never listened when I’d told her how miserable I was, and again and again and again she’d insisted things would get better. They never had though, not the way she wanted them to, and because of that, I was sure I’d lost her.
Maybe I hadn’t lost her before, but as I watched her shatter into infinite pieces, I knew I had now.
“If the council grants me my request, I would like nothing more than to see all of you as often as you’d be willing to visit me,” I said unsteadily. “I would still be eternal, just in another form, and it wouldn’t have to be goodbye unless you wanted it to be.”
Mother said nothing to that, and beside Zeus, Hera cleared her throat. “Do you love him more than Hades?” she said in her girlish voice.
I frowned. Did Hera not understand what had happened between me and Hades? Or was she just searching for affirmation? “Hades is my friend. He will always be my friend, but we never fit. We’ve tried for thousands of miserable years. I can’t love him the way he wants me to, and the way I’m forced to linger just out of his reach is torture for him. I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have, and the only way I trust myself to do that is to step down and leave him completely.”
The council members all turned to look at Hades, who remained stoic as ever in his throne. Hera pressed her lips together, and I could’ve sworn I saw a hint of a smile. Why? Because someone was finally as miserable as she was?
It didn’t matter. She could think whatever she wanted as long as she let me go. “This isn’t an easy decision for me, and I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life,” I said. “But Adonis needs this. Whatever I’m feeling is nothing compared to ensuring his eternity. Please—I know this is unprecedented. I know it’ll throw everything into chaos for a while. But if you allow this, eventually the wounds will heal. If you do not, they’ll fester until Hades and I both shrivel into ash.”
“And you are all right with this, brother?” said Zeus.
“I am,” said Hades hollowly. “I have seen enough to know that she speaks the truth, and I wish nothing more for her than eternal happiness. I ask the same of you all, as well.”
A murmur rippled through the council, and Zeus raised his hand, silencing them. “Very well. We will take a vote. Given the weight of the matter at hand, I ask that we all be unanimous in our decision.” He cast his gaze around the circle, focusing on each of us individually. “Those who agree to grant Persephone’s request?”
I held my breath, and one by one, the members of the council nodded. Hera first, then Ares, then Hephaestus—Artemis, Apollo, Athena, Hestia, Poseidon, Dionysus, even Hermes. Even Hades.
And though her eyes shined with unshed tears, even Mother.
But despite the others’ consent, Aphrodite remained still. Seconds passed in silence, and finally Zeus said, “And you, my daughter?”
“No.” She clenched her jaw so tightly that the cords in her neck stood out. “I won’t agree. She barely knows Adonis—she stole him from me, and she’s betrayed Hades and the council’s wishes repeatedly. I don’t see any reason to reward her for it.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but Zeus raised a hand again, and I fell silent. “Are those your only objections, Aphrodite?”
“Do you really need more? Because I have them.”
In a gentle voice he only used with her, he murmured, “Is it possible you feel this way out of jealousy and grief? He did only die this evening.”
“He did,” she said, her voice shaking. “And the only reason he did is because she insisted I leave him. She couldn’t stand the thought that he might love me more.”
Fury coiled in the pit of my stomach, hot and unyielding. If that was the kind of game she was going to play, then forget silence. “I don’t care if he loves you more,” I said. “Don’t you get that? It has nothing to do with you, and it never did. He’s suffering. He’s torturing himself because of what we did to him, and I don’t care if he hates me. I love him too much to let him go through that, and I will do whatever I can to make sure he doesn’t have to, even if it means giving this up. Even if it means spending the rest of my existence alone.”
Aphrodite said nothing, and her entire being seemed to burn with vehemence. Rather than wearing her down, as I’d hoped, my words only seemed to reinforce her hatred. Terrific.
Zeus sighed. “Aphrodite, I will give you one more chance. Yay or nay?”
“Nay,” she said. “And it will be nay no matter how many times you ask or how often she begs. I will not allow her to win.”
I let out a frustrated noise in the back of my throat. Didn’t she get it? It wasn’t about winning. It was about Adonis and his well-being and making sure he didn’t spend eternity in the cold, being eaten alive by a bear. But she didn’t care—all Aphrodite could see was the fact that I would be with him and she wouldn’t.
I may have been selfish for hurting Hades the way I did, but in that moment, Aphrodite was more selfish than any of us. Because of pride or lust or envy or all three, she would stop Adonis from having the afterlife he deserved, and I hated her. I hated her more than I’d hated anyone, even myself.