against her skin. Impossible, she thought, and yet, it was so.
Together, they worked to bring her child into the world. And there were times when Persephone was certain she would die.
Hours upon hours with the women seated around her, chanting as they went to give her strength. Their prayers for the virtue of her child. The souls of women who had lost the battle and who knew she was strong enough to survive it.
The pain radiated through her back. Blistered between her legs until something hot and raw split her in two. She could feel the child then. Born of magic, pain, and power. She did not know how many long hours she worked to bring her baby into the world, but in the end, the ghosts laid the screaming child into her arms.
Ten fingers and toes, so lovely they made her eyes burn.
A baby girl.
The mop of dark hair on her head rivaled her father’s, so dark it absorbed the light. And when her daughter opened her eyes and let out a little shriek, Persephone knew their voices were the same. The little girl’s eyes were the same as Persephone’s, and the babe perfectly combined both her parents.
Letting out a happy sob, she hugged her daughter to her chest and stared at the ghostly women who were heading back to the river.
“Thank you,” she croaked, her voice hoarse from shouting. “Thank you for helping me get through the birth.”
One spirit looked over her shoulder and smiled. The soft look in her eyes was that of a woman who knew what Persephone had been through.
The last tie to Persephone’s previous life finally loosened.
The spirits of these women took her maidenhood with them. Though she had lain with a man, she was still just a child. Now, with her own babe in her arms, Persephone knew whatever had remained of Kore was finally gone. Her childhood walked hand in hand with the spirits, back into the river where it would spend the rest of its days. Happy, although sad, her past had concluded.
The baby fussed, and with that noise Persephone drew her attention back to her daughter. “Hello,” she said, touching a finger to her daughter’s cheeks.
The baby’s skin was so soft. Like plush velvet. And sure, she was still covered with the muck and mire of Persephone’s body, but she was still perfect.
Footsteps approached, careful and measured. When Persephone looked up, she met Hecate’s dark gaze.
“My queen,” the goddess said. Her voice carried on the wind, filled with power and witchcraft. “You’ve made a daughter like me.”
“Like you?” She looked down at the baby, who wiggled in her arms. “What do you mean?”
Hecate crouched beside her and touched a finger to the child’s arm. “She’s powerful, Persephone. More powerful than you or I might ever know. But I recognize the same magic that runs through my veins, because it doesn’t run through anyone else.” She smiled. “Until now.”
Persephone looked down at her child, then back at Hecate. “I don’t actually know your power, Hecate. I always thought you were a goddess like the rest of us.”
“I am, but not like the rest. There has only been one goddess of the moon, and now there are two. Our magic comes from the feminine wiles, witchcraft, and the darkness between a woman’s legs. We are the divine, feminine power and we walk the line between mortal and magic.” She passed her hand gently over the baby’s head. “Clothe her in red. We’re only supposed to wear crimson when one is divine, such as us.”
The words almost felt like an omen, as though Hecate had whispered words that would change the very fabric of time. She would not deny the goddess this, especially when her own child was so linked to her power.
Persephone passed a hand over the baby, and a red cloth draped her form.
Hecate let out a little sigh. “Thank you. That will help.”
She couldn’t even guess what it would help prevent or heal, but she would not question Hecate.
“Do you want to hold her?” Persephone asked. She didn’t want to give the baby up this soon. She wanted to press the child’s skin to hers, to count her daughter’s fingers a hundred times and stroke her own over the baby’s chubby little arms. But if Hecate was connected to her as she suggested, then Persephone assumed Hecate also had some claim to her daughter.
The goddess of witchcraft shook her head. “No, I don’t like to hold babies. They’re too fragile