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Persephone
For "The Truly Epic Contest"
Word Count: 1045 words
She kissed the gelid, thin cheek of her immortal husband, his hollow eyes mirthless and jealous about her good fortune. As she drew away, he extended his long-fingered hand to touch her shoulder; however, she shied away so that the most which touched her alabaster skin was the stale wind. The hem of his onyx-studded robes gathered at his feet, their thick folds spilling over his golden throne. Little bits of golden thread glistened faintly in his dark, bushy beard.
The queen looked back to the empty throne next to his, her silver staff and bronze crown of laurels laid across the seat. She wrapped herself in the deep blue shawl he had given her, covering her curling saffron tresses. In the sparse light, her dress seemed red as blood. Turning her pale eyes back to him, she exhaled dust with a breathy sigh. “My lord.” Her voice sounded like the song of a dying swallow.
He turned his pitiless gaze to her throne, the pensive expression hinting at his pain.
“Sweet Persephone. You are true to your name.” Around his great golden staff, he tightened his grip. “Whatever place you forsake, you destroy its light.”
She pulled the shawl closer to her shoulders. “It is what my mother says as well, my lord.” From the folds of her dress, she produced a pomegranate. Daintily, she placed it in his lap. When she returned, he would give it back to her. “Goodbye, my lord.” She turned away to the hooded Aiastes who lurked noiselessly a few strides away. The train of her dress trailed as she glided toward him.
Aiastes watched their exchange, seeing the great king stare transfixed by the pomegranate in his lap. The shadowy minion turned his back, skulking after his consort. They walked through the gaping, cavernous halls of her husband’s palace, a soft wind from nowhere nibbling at their clothes.
They came to the arches of palace’s entrance. Persephone smiled vaguely at the golden bough planted there by the last hero to pass through her husband’s kingdom. She plucked it up from the gray ground, tucking it into her robes. It had come from the world above, a token from great heroes to remind her where she was born.
The great expanse of Hades’ horrible domain stood before her. A bubbling black river flowed sluggishly by the arches. Shadowy centaurs raced in herds over plains, large groups of shades parting suddenly for them like flocks of birds. Harpies preened their iron feathers, shrieking to each other every so often out of agitation as they fought over roosts. The dank road leading deeper into the Underworld extended back behind the kingdom, the fiery belches of the giant pit glowing like embers of an imitation sun. She heard the far-off wails of people weeping in the cypress forests. Fallen heroes dragged their ghostly weapons sullenly behind them.
Aiastes led the queen down a winding road alongside the sluggish river. When the path stopped at a bend in the river, Aiastes pulled off his robe to place over the water and revealed his sexless form. After she walked over the bridge made by his clothes, he crossed as well. Drawing up the robe, he once again became a hooded figure.
Scenes became dimmer and less distinct, the shadowy monsters swirling together and receding into gray. Before them, the twin doors of all dreams gleamed. She stood in front of them, everything else in such darkness that she only knew she was on solid ground because she felt it under her sandals. She traced her fingers over the ornate ivory carvings of the elephants, the fruitless trees, and the dying crops. She then looked over the worn carvings on the door of horn, her eyes tracing over the rams, the branches weighted with fat fruit, the crops bristling with bounty. Closing her eyes, she stepped away from the doors. Aiastes pushed against the door of horn, leading Persephone blindly through the threshold.
He placed her hands against cold rock, silently entreating her to grab. Around her, she saw only darkness and heard only the sound of her own breathing. With him pushing up her feet, she grabbed and pulled herself higher. Still, nothing but darkness. She felt her heartbeat grow slower, slower, until it stopped altogether. Although her heart no longer beat, she continued to move and to climb.
Light glinted dully overhead. She gripped the stone more firmly with her cold fingers. Higher, higher. The light hit her white skin, giving it a soft and pleasant glow. Her limbs felt warmer, new blood suffusing her body. She had no need to grab the rocks anymore now as Aiastes pushed her farther. She kept her eyes focused on the light, one hand reaching out.
Her mother Demeter stood at the mouth of the yawning cave, beaming with teary eyes. Around her feet grew flowering plants as she inched toward the edge with her arms. Her hair, brown like the soil, had grain woven between the locks. She outstretched her peach-colored arms to her nearing daughter.
Persephone reached out with both arms, no one pushing her as she floated toward the grain goddess. The blood red of her dress blossomed into soft pink like the delicate color of a rose. Her deep blue shawl turned periwinkle blue. The pallid eyes gained a vibrant green color as more of the light bathed her.
She stood on solid ground of the world above, clasping her mother. Resting her head on Demeter’s shoulder, she saw the dormant trees bear the first buds of their leaves. Dead grass was gradually gaining its color once more. From the folds of her shawl, she produced the golden branch which brought a smile to her mother’s lachrymose face. Together, they planted the branch in the hard soil. The branch lost its luster, becoming a small, thriving tree. Nowhere did she see the yawning hole in the ground. At that moment, her heart began to thump strongly in her breast. She was reborn.
 Persephone13 · Thu Dec 27, 2007 @ 05:19pm · 0 Comments |
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