mortal desires | greek myth

『 three: BLOOD AND WATER. 』

SHE FELT THE SUN boil her olive skin.

Slick with sweat she slides her feet across the sand. The market is bustling with life, even in the intense heat of summer. Corinth has never been so scorching, Helios burning the earth. She pushes past the people, sticky limbs brushing the hundreds that walk by unknowing of what is to occur. She stands at the bottom of the great steps, eyeing the steep and perilous journey before her, the journey to her destiny. With the words of that Delphi oracle ringing in the back of her mind, Maris squares her shoulders in steely resolve—she is to kill a man she has ne'er met. 

AND SO SHE MOUNTS THE MARBLE STAIRS.

Thousands of doubts cross her mind as she makes her way to the palace in the clouds. Time is up. Maris lets a panting breath escape her, as her bare feet smack against the cool stone. The time for thinking is over, it is now that she must act. A wind blows her chiton of steel grey, the fabric sticking to her body like a second skin, revealing the outline of a blade. 

There is an alarming amount of silence for midday, servants paying no mind to the strange young woman who graces the halls—it is typical of their master to have ripe young women around. Maris can feel herself growing more nervous by the second, her palms slick with something other than heat induced sweat: FEAR. A mere girl and she is to carry out the will of fate. And who is she to deny fate? 

Oceanus whispers in her ears as she steps into the room of gold and turquoise, we are close to freedom, can you taste it? Young and in love with the man who has sired her, Maris grips the blade on her thigh, unsheathing it with a soft ring. 

In the middle of the room stands a bed, canopied by white tulle that flutters in the breeze. And there, with soft and supple limbs cradling him, lies the intended victim: Elder Benedictus. Her face screws up with uncertainty as she eyes the young naked women in the bed, she doesn't want to frighten them. But her father whispers of the suffering and pain of his brothers and sisters in Tartarus and Maris swallows her fear. A girl that can be no more than twelve opens her hooded lids, fatigue from the night before begging them to close again—Maris wishes she'd close them too. The girl's eyes dart back and forth between the blade in Maris's hand and the old man's sleeping form. A panicking Maris clamps her palm down on the girl's mouth before she can scream, placing her other finger against her lips. A hush escapes her lips, jutting her chin out towards the open door. The young girl nods her head frantically, tears crawling down her full cheeks. Maris releases her hold on the girl and watches with worried eyes as she sprints out of the room naked. A sadness washes over her as she takes in the fleeting figure of a girl barely a woman, a girl most likely forced into the Elder's bed, a girl like...

Maris can barely remember her face, the woman who held her in her arms when the skies roared and waves pounded the beach of a place so far away. She held herself in the same way as if she had already been broken and was struggling to keep all the pieces of herself. Her wide brown eyes held a heaviness to them of a woman far beyond her years. This projection of an angel among humans was nothing but a mere dream, something lost in many many years of restlessness. That woman makes her feel, and a woman like that was a dangerous thing. She can feel Oceanus in her ear again, commanding her to forget about the girl, to move forward with her act of heroism. He tells Maris that she will be the great liberator, the destruction of Olympus and the champion of Mount Othrys, and at the moment, she believes him—WHO IS SHE TO STAND IN THE WAY OF FATE?

The blade in her hand is heavy, the weight of murder shining in its steel surface. Maris grips the handle tightly, knuckles paling as does her face. Everything is telling her to do it, to raise the blade and plunge it into the crippling old man's chest. But that part of her, the part that remembers the woman on the beach, it notices the wrinkles in his face and stiffness in his bones. He is defenseless. There is no honor in killing a sleeping man, no matter the kind of man he is. Her resolve is fading fast, the desire to help her family still alive, but at what cost? 

IT IS DECIDED FOR HER.

Elder Benedictus's milky eyes stare up at her in horror, his throat aching with the scream he lets out. Maris is still over him, the gravity of what she has done sinking in. The sniveling old bastard tries to crawl away from her, terrified shouts ripping his lungs apart. "GUARDS!" is the call that breaks Maris from her trance, eyes snapping up to the doorway, filled with men, spears poised to kill. She has no doubt in her mind that they will not share her same hesitation to kill. Frustration with herself tightens the grip Maris has on the blade, and that anger makes her want to stab something—this translates into someone. Back against a wall, she has but two choices: FIGHT OR DIE. And while the latter is very appealing, Maris is hardly the type to shy away from a fight. As the head guard takes a step toward her, the blade flies from her deft fingers, embedding itself into his neck. As he falls to his knees, he weakly throws the spear at her—a last-ditch effort at dying with honor. 

The splintering wood halts in the air, Maris spinning it round in her calloused hands. A grip of pure steel latches on the forearm of the weak old man, forcing him up to stand in front of her. Her sharp spearhead stings his back as it presses lightly against his spine, an awful cry escaping his cracked lips. Maris' fingers leave bruises on his forearm as she jerks him back, away from his frozen guards. 

IT IS THE CHANCE SHE HAS BEEN WAITING FOR, THE CHANCE TO BECOME ANNOITED BY PROPHECY.

The heat doesn't discriminate, following them into the shaded room, and sweat blurs her vision. Maris blinks back the stinging salt and sees her again, that angel with a frown on her face and arms folded across her chest. 

"You treasonous whore! You shall pay at the hands of the gods, believe it so, you UNLOVED CREATURE!" 

It was incendiary. The dam had been broken. She was a rushing, roaring river, spinning her spear of death wildly in the air. Her movements held the body of water—strong and fluid. Maris ignored the shouting and thrust the spear upwards, towards the man with pure sewage seeping from his lips. She musters a feral-like growl from deep within her, the pain of a motherless child, the yearning of a near-orphan, forcing itself through the handle of her spear and into Benedictus's wrinkled and aging back. 

AND IN THAT SMALL MOMENT, THE WORLD IS QUIET. 

Something evil has been done by someone hardly innocent, but someone with good in her heart. She has lain the bad man to rest, and her child-like dreams can no longer be scorned by the monster. Maris goes on with her little fairytale of a princess and her loving king father being untouched by the world's terribleness—its her only option besides insanity.

A look past the guards and the angel is gone, nothing but a fleeting image of a memory so far away. But Oceanus is quickly there to fill the hole in her heart, praising his dear, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. 

The guards are seizing her now, as she stares at that empty hallway where the angel once stood. Her victim's warm blood coats her, but Maris is left feeling cold as the guards drag her away.

Why does her angel always leave?