The Taste Of Divinity

Τ Ρ Ι Α Ν Τ Α Ε Ν Ν Ε Α

"You may reveal yourself now, Minthe."

There was a heavy stillness in the air as the winds dutifully carried her words into the lampad's burning ears. It stole all oxygen, abandoning the poor, newly bloomed flowers to gasp for breath as they lay defenceless under the never ending sky of diamonds, in the company of rotting fruit, thorns and bleak promises of ruination and decay.

How utterly macabre.

The Silence--following the example of the winds--became oddly docile, surrendering the throne of lies and deceit to its rightful Queen. Despite its violent nature, it seemed to prefer observing her rule from a distance with a sense of dreadful fascination that typically passed with the first loss of youth. Perhaps, it was for the best. After all, tyrants had always had the habit of losing their heads along with their crowns.

And so, it observed her, the crownless upsuser, it observed her as she broke the pomegranate and threw the seeds into the ash-grey river for her mere amusement as though it was nothing more than an act of rebellion, an act of defiance meant to provoke the ghost of her hospitable Anax which lingered in his place, hovering over her as he stole the form of a thunder and screamed tender promises of love and destruction in her ear.

It observed her as the fruit fell crushed from her palm, the remnants of its bittersweet rubies transforming the soft flesh into a bleeding altar that sought to devour its sacrifice with the same reverence that greed sought the sweetness of gold.

And it was like this, with her hand outstretched and dripping crimson, that she echoed her summon. "Come," she urged softly, almost deceptively so. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Entranced, the Silence resumed its appraisal whimpers. 'Dread Queen, Dread Queen' it called out as though bound by the Fates and their slippery fingers of silk. The rumble of divine praise danced around the stolen Queen, adorning her moon-kissed flesh with secrets of worship in its attempts to replace the adoring caresses of the King.

Regardless, it never touched her.

It never slipped beneath her skin.

She never heard it.

"Tell me Minthe," Persephone murmured as the naiad came crawling from behind the tree dressed in gauzy melancholy and jewels of mourning; as she came crawling with her head bowed in restrained fury and shame, standing like a snake that had lost its tail. "Did you find what you sought in the arms of my flowers?"

Had it merely been a string of pretty, pearl-like words or even an idle threat, Minthe would have been content keeping her gaze on the ground and the dampened fabric that clung to Persephone's flesh, wishing to melt into it.

But the words of the Goddess carried the sweetness of opium and the nymph grew fearful, possessed by holy terror.

Startled, Minthe lifted her heavy head to stare at the daughter of storms. But the pulsing of her heart grew louder, warning her that even the smallest glimpse would be proven unbearable, fatal; and so, she glanced away and, mirroring the maids of the Queen, gave her eyes to the lesser of two frights: to the blooms; to the narcissi.

They flinched under her scrutiny and shameless indiscretion; an act not born out of fear, but merely distaste. They mocked her, their stems curling towards their divine mistress, confirming the suspicions swimming in her dark eyes which narrowed in blatant accusation. It was them who had shared her secrets with the Queen, them who had shared her crimes. How foolish she had been, truly, to expect protection from them, to expect kindness as though their thorns hadn't professed their undying love already. "No," she replied and tore her gaze away, defeated. "I believe I lost more than I gained."