In the Wake of Spring

Chapter 5

By the time she reached the shore, Eos had already thrown wide the gates of dawn, and her brother Helios was beginning his ascent, his golden chariot drawn by fiery horses that spilled molten light across the restless skin of the sea. The air was thick with the tang of salt and the steady groan of mooring ropes straining against their posts. Fishing boats bobbed like slumbering beasts tethered to their masters, their hulls creaking softly with each lap of the tide. Above, gulls wheeled in broad arcs, their cries sharp and wild, speaking in the tongue of ungoverned places.

And there—leaning with practiced ease against a post worn smooth by countless tides—stood Persephone. She was haloed in the newborn light, her hair a fall of living flame against the pale dawn, her eyes bright with the satisfaction of a plan well met.

"As I knew, your affection for me could not let you forsake our little adventure," she said, nose scrunching with mischief as her grin widened.

Euthalia rolled her eyes but failed to hide her own smile. "Oh please, my dear niece, I am only here to ensure you do not get into too much trouble—again."

"Ha-ha, very funny." Persephone's lips curved into a feline smirk. "The gods forbid they ever realize I am not the delicate flower they once thought me to be—unlike a certain someone I know." Her gaze flicked meaningfully to Euthalia before she continued, "I am the Queen of the Underworld. If I can manage the ceaseless company of the dead and keep my husband from tearing out what little patience he has left, I can certainly manage the trivial task of walking among mortals in my ungodly form." She wrinkled her nose, her tone dripping with disdain. "Come, Euthalia—we must find ourselves suitable clothing."

Euthalia tilted her head, innocence plain in her expression. The mortal world was still an unopened scroll to her; its ways a mystery she had never sought to unravel. Then she remembered—Alaric had worn strange garments when they first met, nothing like her own attire. Yet to her mind, she was already modestly covered: a white, near-sheer chiton, the kind mortals themselves often depicted on temple walls.

"Are we not covered enough already?" she asked in genuine confusion.

Persephone's laughter burst forth, bright and irreverent, as though Euthalia had sprouted another head. "Do you jest? Wear that along the waterfront and you'll be mistaken for a harlot before you take your second step."

Before Euthalia could protest, Persephone had seized her hand and was already pulling her toward the sloping road that led to the heart of town.

"I thought mortal men were better than the gods," Euthalia said, glancing at her friend as the world of stone streets and wooden market stalls loomed closer.

Persephone did not stop walking, though her steps faltered for the briefest of moments. For once, she said nothing. The absence was startling—Euthalia could not remember the last time the goddess had let a question hang unanswered. Without breaking stride, Persephone's hand tightened around hers, and she simply pulled her along, the town's distant rooftops growing closer with each determined step.

The bell above the shop door chimed a bright farewell as they stepped into the sunlit street, the two goddesses now clad in the plain, unassuming garb of mortal women.

Persephone's gown was a deep indigo cotton, its high waist a lingering echo of the Empire silhouette, the gathered skirt swaying to her ankles with each step. A narrow woven sash defined her waist, and a lightweight wool shawl draped over her shoulders, its edges patterned in the bold geometric designs of island weavers.

Euthalia's dress was the muted sand-color of undyed homespun. The bodice fit modestly, the sleeves puffed slightly at the shoulder, and her skirt fell just high enough to avoid the street dust. A linen kerchief tied at the back of her head kept her hair neatly in place, much like the fisherwives they passed.

"She does fine work, yea?" Persephone asked, glancing at Euthalia.

Euthalia nodded, her eyes lingering on the shop's closed door, where the faint glimmer of its protective veil wavered like heat over stone. She could almost see Aglaia's warm smile from when they'd first stepped inside her "shop for mortals."

"No doubt," she said, still watching the door. "We now look just like them."

"Well, Agie does owe me for that small favor last spring." Persephone's tone left no room for questions, and Euthalia knew better than to pry.

They turned their gaze forward to the bustling morning streets of Adamas.

"Well, what's first?" Euthalia exhaled, her voice laced with a barely contained thrill. Perhaps it was the mortal clothes, or the novelty of walking openly among them, that made her momentarily forget her siblings' warnings about the dangers of the human world. The rising sun cast a golden sheen over the whitewashed walls, and the townsfolk, just beginning their day, filled the air with the energy of expectation.

Persephone's smile bloomed wide and bright as she clasped Euthalia's hand, tugging her into the pulsing heart of the market street. Voices rose and fell in a lively cadence—bartering, gossiping, laughing—while the tang of salt drifted on the harbor breeze. For a fleeting moment, the rhythm and warmth of it all wrapped around Euthalia so completely she almost believed she belonged here. Side by side, they moved easily through the crowd, their plain mortal garb letting them vanish into the rhythm of the street.

Euthalia found herself smiling more than she realized. Every merchant they passed greeted them with a nod or a cheerful word, pressing ripe apricots into their hands or praising the color of their shawls. Children darted between them, giggling, their bare feet quick against the sun-baked stone. It was strange—she had walked in mortal places before, but never had she felt this ease, this unguarded warmth from every face.

Then, in the middle of listening to an elderly fisherman tell them about the year the sea had turned silver with anchovies, Euthalia's stomach gave a hollow twist. She faltered, touching her midsection.

"What is this?" she whispered, brow furrowing. "It feels... strange. Empty. Unpleasant."

Persephone's lips curved into a knowing grin. "That, my dear, is hunger. Mortals feel it every day—it's their reminder to seek sustenance. You've never had to obey such a summons before."

"I don't like it," Euthalia admitted, half-embarrassed.

Her lips curved in a sly grin. "Come. I know just the place."

They turned into a shaded courtyard where the air was rich with the scent of baking bread and grilled fish. Music floated from a wide-open doorway—lyrical, honey-gold notes tumbling like water over stone. As they stepped inside, the dim coolness of the tavern wrapped around them. The midday crowd was alive with laughter and clinking cups, yet all seemed to lean toward one point: the man playing at the far end of the room.

Euthalia's gaze hardened, her jaw tightening as the shape of him pulled at an old wound. "That's no mortal," she said, the words edged with the same bitterness that once followed the breaking of her heart.

Persephone only grinned, as if she had been expecting this all along. "No," she murmured, "he's not."

He was dressed plainly, as any traveling musician might be—white linen shirt open at the throat, a dark vest fitted to his lean frame, hair sunlit gold even in shadow. Women clustered at his feet, their eyes shining as if they might drink the music from his lips. His voice was clear, unhurried, carrying the scent of summer orchards and faraway fields.

Euthalia froze, her brief time in the mortal realm suddenly heavy. She was back in another life, a foolish goddess chasing the warmth of that same smile—once certain it was meant for her, until she saw his gaze slide past, fixed instead on her niece... on Daphne.

As if sensing them, Apollo's song faltered. His eyes lifted, searching the crowd until they found hers. The tavern seemed to hush. A flicker of recognition—then something softer—passed through his gaze.

Near the front, a woman sighed dreamily, reaching toward him as if he were a vision. She didn't know, none of them did. That the beauty before them was no mere mortal bard, but a god who had once broken Euthalia's heart.

Persephone tilted closer, a quiet laugh in her throat. "Well... this should be interesting."