Chapter Text
All know of the Fates, those daughters of Night who work the loom on which the threads of our lives are woven. Mortal or God, there is no escaping their power. They spin our tales and bind us to the inescapable tapestry of history. Suffering or ecstasy, war or peace, all is as to their design.
However, any weaver knows this one truth: no matter the maker, no matter the intent, the same cloth may appear very different when viewed from the other side.
Behold, one such reversal.
Persephone kept her head down as she forced her way through the blizzard. As soon as she passed the Temple doors her world world had been reduced to white. It was piled high enough that, even had she not been pregnant, it would have been difficult, and she was so cold that it felt less like shivering than convulsing. The snow blotted out everything: the sun, the horizon, any trees beyond arm's length. So much snow, and already the pains were coming closer together, as if the new life within her knew it was the worst possible time and was determined to make it even harder.
She knew she should have left sooner, but she'd hoped Hades would change his mind. Foolish. As if he'd ever changed his mind about anything.
None of it could be helped. Snow-blind and in pain, she had to keep going until she found somewhere safe, whatever that meant. There was no way to tell how far she'd gotten from the Temple, and she couldn't know how close was too close. She had to keep moving and find shelter, somewhere far away from her husband's domain. She'd go back—they'd go back when it was safe. Whenever that could be. What else was there to do?
It was a cruel fate, that which the Fates demanded of her. She couldn't bear it. How could any mother? All she could do was push onward, and hope she wasn't walking in circles.
Some amount of time later hands grabbed at her from the darkness—darkness? When had it grown dark?—like those blasted Wringers that had caused her so much difficulty in Tartarus. She fought them off, using the little strength she had to break away. It was so cold, though, and there was nowhere to go to actually escape. Another contraction nearly brought her to her knees and then the hands were back. Gentler, this time, a body blocking the wind from her face.
"—n't be out here. Where's Cha—oh no—"
Instead of strangling, the hands lifted. Held. She felt movement, so swift that it made her head spin. That was the only part of her that registered anything at all beyond the pain and the intense urge to push. The rest of her had gone numb. She'd even stopped shivering.
Movement stopped. It was replaced by light and noise, so much that she groaned and tried to hide her face. If she succeeded, she couldn't feel it, and it didn't help. Familiar voices rose around her. Old friends. Family. The words blurred together into meaningless chaos, much as everything else had.
Persephone thought she was crying. She wanted to cry. Her body didn't hurt anymore, and that was more terrifying than any suffering she had felt before. The pain of labor had vanished entirely. All of the world sideways, exhaustion and cold had achieved what the fiends of the Underworld had failed.
She'd been too late.
"My—my son..." The lights were blessedly dimming behind her closed eyelids. She was so tired, her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Hands like ice clutched hers. Even that felt distant. "So sorry... Zagreus..."
The warm, welcoming embrace of the Styx rose up to wrap around her soul and pull her down. It left behind a cold, empty shell as it carried her home.