She didn’t call me Kore. She named me Kore. “Maiden”.

To hell with that.

I had to be the perfect daughter. I had to play the pretty princess and frolic with nymphs on the hillsides and paint the faces of the flowers and be a good little darling. I had to be beautiful – but no! no man could so much as look at me, ’cause I was her Kore. I had to be sweet and demure and ignorant – no thoughts of her own for Kore! Just sit there and look nice, dear, and help me make the plants pretty. Don’t you want to help me, dear heart?

To hell with that.

I played with the ice when Mother wasn’t looking, making patterns on ponds, causing my breath to snow, freezing flowers into brittle perfection. She caught me, once, and from then on, she only ever left me if I was surrounded by nymphs. Emptyheaded, saccharine bitches.

It took ages, but I learned how to distract my witless watchers so I could sneak away.

————

I was making ice needles when I first met him.

He was my uncle, but that doesn’t matter to us, not like it does to you. Even if we were human, I doubt I would have cared about our shared blood: he was damn sexy.

What? He was.

He also looked more than a little confused. His horses looked much the same, and that’s when I realized I’d frozen the pond. Embarrassed, I rose to greet him, and explained that though I could freeze things, I could not undo the frost, and the ice would have to melt on its own.

He did not at first recognize me; when he did, he was quite taken aback. You freeze things? he said. No one ever mentioned this.

I do, I replied, but Mother doesn’t like it.

What were you making? he asked. I showed him the ice needles, and he greatly admired them, and asked to take some back with him. Flattered, I assented.

I would like to see you again, he said.

I would like the same, I replied.

————

It was on the occasion of our sixth meeting that he asked me my age. You know it, I answered.

Marriage age, he said.

And a little more, I agreed.

His eyes flickered over me, like they did sometimes when he thought I didn’t see. This time, when he noticed I’d noticed, he didn’t look away. Come with me to my home? he asked.

As what? I asked in return.

My wife, he said.

Of course, I accepted.

————

Here’s an irony for you: winter does not have to mean barrenness. It does because my mother says it does.

When I left, she was furious, and in a fury, she turned from her duty and killed the life in the crops. She did this to pressure Zeus into coming to her aid, or to guilt me into returning. Probably both.

That was all the barrenness was, at first; just barrenness. No snow, no ice, no storms, no frost.

That came later.

————

I almost felt sorry for Hermes, delivering a message he clearly didn’t like. I did feel sorry for my husband, who was upset that I was upset. He wanted to come after me when I fled the room, but I didn’t let him.

He would have stopped me from eating the pomegranate.

As it was, Hermes did chase me, and I never did finish it. He seemed both upset and relieved when he saw what I was doing, and upset at being relieved.

————

What good is a law that is thrown to the wind at will? What is the point in saying, if you do this, this will happen, if you then say, except, except?

I go back up to the aboveground, cursing my mother and Zeus in turns. She is there when I arrive – to greet me, it seems, though I know it is only to ensure that I remain in her control. She is still angry.

So am I.

Kore, Kore! she says, seeking to envelop me in a showy embrace as the nymphs watch.

I am not Kore, I say. I have given myself a new name. I am Persephone, She Who Destroys Light, and as long as you force me to remain here against my will, I will unleash the full force of my power.

And the sky darkens with heavy cloud. The very air grows brittle; breath stabs at the lungs. Frost coats the ground; soil turns hard as stone; thick snow coats the ground and dampens every sound; ice seals the waters away. Winter storms line up to lash out at the land that is my mother’s medium.

So be it, she says. If you will throw tantrums, so will I. There will be no food in the land as long as you do this, she says.

And so my kingdom grows by your hand every day you keep me here, I say. It seems like the least you could do.

She reddens; she wishes to say, Begone from my sight! but knows that if she does, I am never coming back. Instead, she turns away from me and snaps at the nymphs who are to be my jailers. They guide me away.

We come to a garden. On a tree near the edge, I find a lonely fruit. Smiling, I slice it open, and offer some to my attendants.

Pomegranate? I ask.