Disclaimer: I am not sure I should even include one, since I really don't know who holds the rights over these Slavic deities. Anyway, it certainly isn't me.

Slavic myths are not well preserved, at least compared to the Greek and Norse ones. Anyway, those that survived are really fascinating. To me, at least. I hope you'll like my view on this one.

The Death of Joy

It was the late autumn when word spread that Oda had returned. Heavily pregnant, she had wished to spend the last pre-winter weeks in her native village, with her mother and sisters caring for her. Her husband had agreed to bring her here before he left for his annual hunt.

The news spread in no time; soon, she was sitting with her friends on the shore of the nearest stream.

"So, what is it like?"

The young woman blushed crimson at her friends' eager questions. What could she tell them about how great it was to be married, to be a real wife? How could she describe to them how wonderful her new husband was? And could she really explain it to a crowd of maidens? They wouldn't understand.

"It is… different," she said, looking down at her sewing.

"How is it different?" Judith insisted.

Oda laughed despite herself and the others joined, throwing covert glances at the men who were hurrying around, busy with their work. "You will see," Oda responded with the air of mystery. "All of you. All I can tell you – " She paused. " – is that I hope you'll be as happy as I am. Riksa, you'll be the first one!"

The laughter suddenly died and Oda immediately realized that she had said something wrong.

"Hardly," Riksa said softly, her gaze glued to the distant figure on the nearest hill. Oda strained her eyes but all she could see was that the woman was dressed in white, her black hair whirling around her in the fierce wind.

"Look what I caught!" Mieszko cried as soon as he entered his home. His eyes immediately went to the woman sitting on the bear hide combing her long hair. She was staring at the stars, her face grieved, her thoughts far away. He was looking forward to seeing the satisfaction in her eyes and she didn't disappoint him: she gawked and cried, "Oh!" while he placed the game in front of her. It was his best hunting day in years, they would be provided for in weeks if they dried it properly.

"Now we can invite everyone to or wedding feast," he exclaimed and she nodded, smiling. He felt as if he could lose himself in that smile. He knew that he would never return to Riksa. He had never loved her for real, not the way he loved Mara. He would forever bless that day about half a month ago when he had first seen her. He had been hunting then, too, and she had appeared out of nowhere, a vision of loveliness in her simple white dress. He had fallen for her immediately, her hair and eyes and her pale face the most beautiful he had ever seen. He still couldn't believe his luck, that she returned his feelings. He could hardly wait to make her his wife, although there was some muttering among the villagers – they insisted that weddings should take place in the summer, not the winter. It did not bode good, old women said. He almost laughed at this. They were so old, they had really forgotten what it was to be young and helpless at what your heart demanded. There was no way that he'd wait for the summer to come, or even spring – he marry her as soon as possible. Until then, he'd leave her alone, although lodged in his home – another source of irritation for his fellow villagers who found it inappropriate for a man and a woman who were not related to share a home. Women were like cats, especially when one of them was prettier than the others. With time, they would accept Mara and her strange ways. Mieszko was ready to do everything to erase the grief from her eyes, to make her forget everything that ailed her heart.

He woke up suddenly, drenched in cold sweat. The fire was dying and the room was dimly lit by the last embers. There was something in there. Something terrible. Something that shouldn't be there. He instinctively looked at Mara's cot to make sure that she was all right, but it was empty. His betrothed stood in the middle of the room. Mieszko sighed, relieved. "Mara," he said, "for a moment I thought – "

The air in front of her curdled, and the room grew colder. The female figure rippled and faded, but Mieszko couldn't see her clearly. She was an old woman and she was a young girl. She was a proud queen and a desperate girl, wringing her hands. She was certain and she was confused. She was brave and she was cringing back, terrified.

"What – " the young man started, but suddenly he couldn't find his voice. His mouth had gone dry.

Suddenly, the flames flickered in the fireplace. In a minute, they were burning, high and fierce. Mieszko saw strange glowing shadows around the room – a horse, a ripe ear of wheat, a whole field of fruit, a clear running stream, a great celebration, a dark murder, a body being torn to build a house. In the middle of it all stood the ghost, little girl, young bride, old crone, beautiful, mad, regal, pathetic, cruel, grieved. A sudden flash took his eyes off her, to the shining scythe in front of him. In this moment, he realized that he had taken as his betrothed Death herself. He wanted to run away, but Mara aimed the scythe and spoke, "You pledged to be mine, that's why I will take you with me."

In this moment, Mieszko fell dead on the floor.

A.N. Did you recognize the myth? I suppose you did. The motive, if not the names, at least. Is someone interested in a version of the same myth, but this time told by the dying-rebirthing god? Please, let me know.