The Taste Of Divinity

Τ Ρ Ι Α Ν Τ Α Ο Κ Τ Ω

THE TASTE OF BETRAYAL rested on Minthe's bloodied tongue.

It was sweet, born out of intrusive, saccharine thoughts and the tale of a nightmare that had received her in its grand palace before she had even dared to close her eyes. In that palace she saw a lifetime of fears and doubts carved into the walls. Every secret and every desire she possessed lay exposed, stretched over high, cherry coloured columns only to be ridiculed by a horde of shadows that wore her skin and stole her voice to scream.

A terrible dream, but one she had created herself as her suspicions and strange desires festered, a feast for the crows lurking behind her eyes.

She had no one but herself to blame, the nymph, frightened but so enamoured with the idea of receiving the burning kiss of the Sun as she was that she forced more heartache on herself than she could stand. Especially on nights like this, when she was reminded of her reality; a dreadful reality fuelled by the vile, thundering silence she'd always prayed for.

It frightened her, how the souls did not beg with strangled cries from the banks of the Acheron as they prepared for the departure of their Renowned Master; how the howls of the fearsome guardian with the empty eyes went unheard.

It sickened her, how she could hear her own breaths, caged inside her lungs; how the beat of her heart and the pulsing of her veins did not escape her; how the voices living in her mind refused to drown; how something as formless as silence had the ability to creep inside her bones and choke her from within; how something so supposedly peaceful had the power to be so utterly violent.

Odd how the things she desired the most transformed and weaved their threads into her greatest regrets.

With her hands covering her ears, the lampad fell to her knees and wailed, begging the voices to show her mercy and not remind her how the Land of the Dead was always quiet when he left, always empty; how the earth refused to breathe when he was away, how his asphodels did not bloom, how his pomegranates--ever the devout servants--did not open for anyone but him, how they preferred to fall rotten to the ground, their seeds spilling out of their torn flesh into a deluge of bitter-sweet blood.

The omen of a disaster that had yet to come.

The omen of a truth she would never admit.

He was missed, the King.

He was missed by the soulful mourning of the winds, the roots of the undying trees.

He was missed by the anaglyph figurines, his throne of ebony.

He was even missed by the nymph, the one who detested him.

And if the events she was witnessing were any proof, Minthe would dare claim that he was even missed by his Queen.

❁❁

If asked, she'd be unable to confess what had lured her into such madness. She did not know. The memory of the kiss she'd stolen, perhaps; the softness of Persephone's skin; the once familiar taste of the Unseen one's lust; perhaps even the cutting words which had sunk into her skin with such softness and care she hadn't even realised when they'd left her brittle bones exposed.

She did not know.

And it did not matter.

What mattered was that she'd removed her bracelets and rings and stalked after Persephone with steps lighter than the faintest gasp of air, careful to remain unnoticed by the Queen and the shadows that tended to accompany her every step.

What mattered was that she'd remained hidden in the tenebrous halls for hours, waiting for something to occur, something beyond her knowledge and understanding, something that would sate the perverse curiosity she harboured.