Death's Lady
By Calcifersgrl
Author's Note: This is, I suppose, a version of Persephone and Hades, the Greek myth. It didn't start out that way. I had been thinking about a Jane Yolen story called, "Winter's King," (a haunting tale, but it has absolutely nothing to do with this story), when I suddenly recalled a section in Winter Rose by Patricia A. McKillip, where Rois sees the face of the queen(?) and recognizes her as the face of Winter. That struck me, and this story was born. I hope you like it. Please read and review and tell me what you think!
Chapter 1: The Beginning
Those who have never known Death are lucky, they say. Lucky for now, having escaped his inevitable cold hands, but sooner or later, they will know Death. Soon, they say, wagging their fingers knowingly. No one can escape him, no one.
I have never seen him. Despite my vigilant eye, he darts in and out of houses, extinguishing life from those he chooses. I have never seen his chilly hands at work, nor heard his frosty breath blow across my face, but I bide my time. Sooner or later, one will know Death, perhaps sooner than later.
I grew up, amidst dew on rose petals and the taste of fresh rain on the wind, and because of that, my mother named me Persephone, after the spring. We lived cozily in the spry green world, day after day inebriated with life. I was content with the warm sun shining on my closed eyelids, my golden face lifted to embrace the life-giver. I spent my days, chasing after butterflies, naming the trees, plants, and flowers, and rolling down grassy hills, much to my mother's chagrin. She had to brush dry my torn and grass-stained dresses, murmuring that such mortal goods were hard to be found. I would wriggle impatiently out of her tight grasp, smile up at her face, and laugh.
This time she looked at me, ruefully. "Ah, Persephone, what child-like innocence. You are the heart of this place, my daughter. The heart of spring. But be careful, be wise, be safe. I have seen the Winter King watching. His icy heart abides with jealousy, and he would like nothing more than to have you."
She said nothing more, and I asked nothing of her. I obediently submitted to her grasp, quiet and still for once. She yanked the costly tortoise-shell comb through my unruly hair, and I pulled away with a small shriek. Three strands of golden hair had come loose from my head, and I trembled, touching my hand to my protesting scalp. I glanced at my mother. She did not look at me, only at her own trembling. Her hand, still clutched around the comb, had broken all the precious teeth. They splintered to the ground, and time seemed to freeze. It was then that I noticed the drops of dark blood that had begun to seep between the knuckles of her quivering fist.
She never spoke of the incidence, and I never asked her to explain. It was the way of our relationship. I realized her authority, and like a sensible girl, I submitted to it. I never questioned her, curious though I was, until now. I was sixteen, a young maid who should have stopped running through tall stalks of grass, scaling ancient trees, and frolicking with the woodland animals long ago, but I could not forsake my favorite pastimes for prim and docile behavior. I did not run in the wilderness like some wild girl, but I did spend most of my hours, basking under the sun's gentle gaze (most unlike young maids!), gathering fresh flowers for my mother and our neighbors, who lived far away in town. It was on one day that I arrived with a basket of flowers for our neighbors, that I first learned of Death.
He had a way of creeping into houses, tiptoeing in the silence, and taking loved ones. I greeted the Philymites. Their ashen faces with remnants of dried tears immediately quelled my happiness. They welcomed me wordlessly into their humble home and brought me to their daughter's bedside.
I recalled her name. Cassandra Philymite. Her face had a waxy sheen to it, rather than the rosy glow I had been accustomed to seeing. I gently rolled her onto her back. Her eyes were closed. I stepped back, startled, seeing her beautiful head flop to one side. Her chest did not rise with the customary intake of breath. She was dead.
Her father, cap in hand, still wallowing in his grief murmured, "That cold dastard. He took her - her, so young and full of life. My poor Cass . . ." He swallowed his salty tears, and I was shocked to hear the bitterness that laced his throat, and crept up mine like a thick, sheen of unwanted mucus. I felt a dark hand squeeze my heart, squeeze the life out of it. Here was Death's handiwork laid out before me, his destruction. I had never known Death till now. I had thought he was a myth, something that could never touch me. He was the centerpiece of a game; I had waited and watched for Death because he was a mysterious unknown. I turned my head away, my eyes hidden. One piece of my childhood vanished; I no longer bid my time for Death. I knew, now, that he was everywhere. Watching gravely, atop his pale horse, his coldness seeping into every life around, until they too were cold and lifeless like him.
I returned to my mother, the spring no longer in my step. She knew, of course, what had happened. My sorrow, my confusion was scrawled all over my face, and even then, when she tipped my chin, and looked into my blue eyes, she saw the tears swimming. She knew. Taking me by the shoulder, she sat me down on the chair and explained that mortals were meant to die. It was a way of life. They were given the breath of life, and so were they given, that breath was also taken in the end.
Cassandra was young, I thought, but I held my tongue. Instead I asked, "Do we die, mother?" I saw a shadow flit across her face, obscuring her eyes. But even then, I saw the shadow transform into the tortoise-shell comb from eight years past, and her hand, bloody from breaking the teeth of the fine comb. And when she looked at me and focused her blue eyes on mine, I knew, in the ways a daughter knows her mother's mind.
"Some die, and some don't," I said softly, more to myself, than to my mother. "Am I destined to die, Mother? Will this spring wither, its petals crumble to ash on the wind? If that is my fate, so be it. Perhaps, it is not so hard of a thing to give into Death's cold embrace."
Her resolve crumpled, and she buried her head into my dress. "Never, never," she sobbed, hysterical for once. "The Winter King watches you, but I will sacrifice myself before I let him take you from me. You are a creature of sunlight, Persephone. You were not meant for his palace of winterock." Her tears and hushed babbling slowly subsided. She straightened herself, perhaps embarrassed to act in such a manner before her own daughter. When she spoke next, her voice was laced with honey and sweetness and golden. I remember thinking of light, of warmth, of happiness. Forget, the voice said. Forget your grief, your sorrow. Be as you were, daughter. My spring, my beautiful.
I turned seventeen after five moons. I remained spring's daughter; I had discovered my power to grow things. Where I walked, little green shoots would spurt out of the smooth dirt. These shoots turned to sapling trees, to daisies, to sweet-smelling bushes. Likewise, my hair bloomed; I had begun to braid flowers in my hair, cornflowers, and daises, and rare lilies. They did not wither, as most flowers do when plucked. Instead they stayed as they were, immortalized in their beauty and scent.
It was a power that I wished to spread throughout the barren world. The ground I tread on blossomed with life. The world turned greener, the villagers grew more cheerful, and I? I was content - let that be said. I did not know sorrow or Death - my mother had erased that memory with her sweet voice.
It was one fateful day that I wandered farther into the woods than normal, searching for precious roots. The thick, ghostly trees shaded the blue sky, and only small glimpses of sunlight shone through. The earth was dead, beyond my reach; I did not have the potency to heal it. The ground I trod on did not spring up with fresh buds anew. No, only the soft tramping of my own feet echoed in such a still, despairing place.
I never noticed him. I was too intent on finding that particular flower with dark blue petals and its root. The root was to be ground and turned into a cure for a sick villager. I never heard his horse, not its quiet whinny, not its salivating that dripped to the dying earth. No, I did not hear him until he spoke.
The stillness broke with a single voice. The cawing of crows sounded; a flutter of wings trying to escape the darkness. The dirt kicked up. I gasped, dropped my cutting knife, and backed away slowly. A great white horse pawed nervously at the dirt, and whinnied. I looked up, perhaps in fear or awe, at the white rider atop the massive beast. He was tall, even when saddled and sitting, with short, blond hair framing a serene face. What troubled me most were his eyes - dark, brooding, sorrowful eyes. He looked young, but his eyes were old. Ancient. As if he had seen countless deaths over the years, weighing him down, making his vision blurred and aged.
I knew who he was. The man whom my mother feared. The man she told me I should fear. The Winter King atop his white horse, living in his cold winterock palace. I looked at his eyes more closely, and I saw the deaths flash in a blur through his black eyes. And then once I again I saw my own reflection. But it wasn't me. No, it was an interpretation of me. That was my hair -windblown, my eyes - filled with wonderment, but that golden aura that surrounded me in his eyes was not right.
I saw him in his eyes next. The Winter King, and I knew his face. I gasped as the realization struck me. As a child I had waited and watched for him, wondering who he was. Wondering at his difference. This was Death. He was Death, this sorrowful rider atop his pale steed.
He said my name, "Persephone," in a low, rumbling voice. The wind stirred, and the ground shook.
I stepped back, nervously.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked sadly, his gloved hand falling into his lap.
I took a step forward. I was not afraid of him; I did not want to fear this sad, black-eyed rider. "Should I be?" I asked, with just a twinge of sauciness. Then I smiled at him, to show my impertinence was not meant to hurt him.
"Aye," he said in that voice of him. "You should be." He was beautiful, I noticed, dressed in this white glowing suit of armor. He looked like an angel. An angel called Death.
"But," I replied, "Milord, I am not afraid. I know who you are, and I do not fear you." I smiled again, tilting my head to one side, shyly. "You are the Winter King, whom my mother fears will take me away. You have been watching me for a long time."
"Yes," he breathed, and the world stirred with that breath. "I have been watching you for a long time."
"You will not take me away," I continued. "That will surely break my mother's heart. I am not ready to be taken from this world. I am not ready to die."
The beautiful face frowned slightly. "You will not die," he said.
"But you are Death," I countered, "You take life."
His face fell. The sad eyes drooped, suddenly taking my heart with it. I took a step forward, earnestly, trying to explain what I did not know how to say.
"That was not what I meant to say," I managed. He cut me off abruptly with a wave of his gloved hand.
"I understand," he said, sorrowfully. "That is who I am. It is only the truth. I cannot hide the truth." Something resounded in his voice, something that caught my attention. I gazed at him sharply.
"And will you take me away without my mother's consent?" I asked.
He jerked his head up, out of his despair, and gazed at me. His black eyes burned. I blushed. I was not used to young men, even if they were Death. "Yes," he said, without hesitating. "Will you come with me?" He continued, "I would rather you come of your own free will, rather than kicking and screaming."
I backed away, and looked at him with apprehension. "You say that I will not die, but what will become of me if I come with you? What lies in my future but death?"
He looked directly at me, and I saw myself reflected in his eyes again. His sad eyes bore a hungry look - a look of wanting and wishing for something to break the cold. I glanced away. His eyes were too direct, too much for me to look at now.
"I wish for you to become my queen," Death said.
And then the world shook uncontrollably. The ground beneath me split open with a roar, and I fell.
I remember seeing Death and its white horse leap after me, into this dark abyss. But the roaring drowned out most things, my thoughts, and my screaming. Yes, I screamed - my mouth opened into a black square to cry for my mother, but no sound came out. I was falling, and I had left my voice behind me, back in the forest.
***
Do you like it? Should I write more? Please review this and comment. I appreciate them a lot.
I wrote this in two days ..., but I hope there aren't many mistakes.
Yay!!! I finally am writing a fairy tale again (haven't wrote for this section in a loooong time.)
By Calcifersgrl
Author's Note: This is, I suppose, a version of Persephone and Hades, the Greek myth. It didn't start out that way. I had been thinking about a Jane Yolen story called, "Winter's King," (a haunting tale, but it has absolutely nothing to do with this story), when I suddenly recalled a section in Winter Rose by Patricia A. McKillip, where Rois sees the face of the queen(?) and recognizes her as the face of Winter. That struck me, and this story was born. I hope you like it. Please read and review and tell me what you think!
Chapter 1: The Beginning
Those who have never known Death are lucky, they say. Lucky for now, having escaped his inevitable cold hands, but sooner or later, they will know Death. Soon, they say, wagging their fingers knowingly. No one can escape him, no one.
I have never seen him. Despite my vigilant eye, he darts in and out of houses, extinguishing life from those he chooses. I have never seen his chilly hands at work, nor heard his frosty breath blow across my face, but I bide my time. Sooner or later, one will know Death, perhaps sooner than later.
I grew up, amidst dew on rose petals and the taste of fresh rain on the wind, and because of that, my mother named me Persephone, after the spring. We lived cozily in the spry green world, day after day inebriated with life. I was content with the warm sun shining on my closed eyelids, my golden face lifted to embrace the life-giver. I spent my days, chasing after butterflies, naming the trees, plants, and flowers, and rolling down grassy hills, much to my mother's chagrin. She had to brush dry my torn and grass-stained dresses, murmuring that such mortal goods were hard to be found. I would wriggle impatiently out of her tight grasp, smile up at her face, and laugh.
This time she looked at me, ruefully. "Ah, Persephone, what child-like innocence. You are the heart of this place, my daughter. The heart of spring. But be careful, be wise, be safe. I have seen the Winter King watching. His icy heart abides with jealousy, and he would like nothing more than to have you."
She said nothing more, and I asked nothing of her. I obediently submitted to her grasp, quiet and still for once. She yanked the costly tortoise-shell comb through my unruly hair, and I pulled away with a small shriek. Three strands of golden hair had come loose from my head, and I trembled, touching my hand to my protesting scalp. I glanced at my mother. She did not look at me, only at her own trembling. Her hand, still clutched around the comb, had broken all the precious teeth. They splintered to the ground, and time seemed to freeze. It was then that I noticed the drops of dark blood that had begun to seep between the knuckles of her quivering fist.
She never spoke of the incidence, and I never asked her to explain. It was the way of our relationship. I realized her authority, and like a sensible girl, I submitted to it. I never questioned her, curious though I was, until now. I was sixteen, a young maid who should have stopped running through tall stalks of grass, scaling ancient trees, and frolicking with the woodland animals long ago, but I could not forsake my favorite pastimes for prim and docile behavior. I did not run in the wilderness like some wild girl, but I did spend most of my hours, basking under the sun's gentle gaze (most unlike young maids!), gathering fresh flowers for my mother and our neighbors, who lived far away in town. It was on one day that I arrived with a basket of flowers for our neighbors, that I first learned of Death.
He had a way of creeping into houses, tiptoeing in the silence, and taking loved ones. I greeted the Philymites. Their ashen faces with remnants of dried tears immediately quelled my happiness. They welcomed me wordlessly into their humble home and brought me to their daughter's bedside.
I recalled her name. Cassandra Philymite. Her face had a waxy sheen to it, rather than the rosy glow I had been accustomed to seeing. I gently rolled her onto her back. Her eyes were closed. I stepped back, startled, seeing her beautiful head flop to one side. Her chest did not rise with the customary intake of breath. She was dead.
Her father, cap in hand, still wallowing in his grief murmured, "That cold dastard. He took her - her, so young and full of life. My poor Cass . . ." He swallowed his salty tears, and I was shocked to hear the bitterness that laced his throat, and crept up mine like a thick, sheen of unwanted mucus. I felt a dark hand squeeze my heart, squeeze the life out of it. Here was Death's handiwork laid out before me, his destruction. I had never known Death till now. I had thought he was a myth, something that could never touch me. He was the centerpiece of a game; I had waited and watched for Death because he was a mysterious unknown. I turned my head away, my eyes hidden. One piece of my childhood vanished; I no longer bid my time for Death. I knew, now, that he was everywhere. Watching gravely, atop his pale horse, his coldness seeping into every life around, until they too were cold and lifeless like him.
I returned to my mother, the spring no longer in my step. She knew, of course, what had happened. My sorrow, my confusion was scrawled all over my face, and even then, when she tipped my chin, and looked into my blue eyes, she saw the tears swimming. She knew. Taking me by the shoulder, she sat me down on the chair and explained that mortals were meant to die. It was a way of life. They were given the breath of life, and so were they given, that breath was also taken in the end.
Cassandra was young, I thought, but I held my tongue. Instead I asked, "Do we die, mother?" I saw a shadow flit across her face, obscuring her eyes. But even then, I saw the shadow transform into the tortoise-shell comb from eight years past, and her hand, bloody from breaking the teeth of the fine comb. And when she looked at me and focused her blue eyes on mine, I knew, in the ways a daughter knows her mother's mind.
"Some die, and some don't," I said softly, more to myself, than to my mother. "Am I destined to die, Mother? Will this spring wither, its petals crumble to ash on the wind? If that is my fate, so be it. Perhaps, it is not so hard of a thing to give into Death's cold embrace."
Her resolve crumpled, and she buried her head into my dress. "Never, never," she sobbed, hysterical for once. "The Winter King watches you, but I will sacrifice myself before I let him take you from me. You are a creature of sunlight, Persephone. You were not meant for his palace of winterock." Her tears and hushed babbling slowly subsided. She straightened herself, perhaps embarrassed to act in such a manner before her own daughter. When she spoke next, her voice was laced with honey and sweetness and golden. I remember thinking of light, of warmth, of happiness. Forget, the voice said. Forget your grief, your sorrow. Be as you were, daughter. My spring, my beautiful.
I turned seventeen after five moons. I remained spring's daughter; I had discovered my power to grow things. Where I walked, little green shoots would spurt out of the smooth dirt. These shoots turned to sapling trees, to daisies, to sweet-smelling bushes. Likewise, my hair bloomed; I had begun to braid flowers in my hair, cornflowers, and daises, and rare lilies. They did not wither, as most flowers do when plucked. Instead they stayed as they were, immortalized in their beauty and scent.
It was a power that I wished to spread throughout the barren world. The ground I tread on blossomed with life. The world turned greener, the villagers grew more cheerful, and I? I was content - let that be said. I did not know sorrow or Death - my mother had erased that memory with her sweet voice.
It was one fateful day that I wandered farther into the woods than normal, searching for precious roots. The thick, ghostly trees shaded the blue sky, and only small glimpses of sunlight shone through. The earth was dead, beyond my reach; I did not have the potency to heal it. The ground I trod on did not spring up with fresh buds anew. No, only the soft tramping of my own feet echoed in such a still, despairing place.
I never noticed him. I was too intent on finding that particular flower with dark blue petals and its root. The root was to be ground and turned into a cure for a sick villager. I never heard his horse, not its quiet whinny, not its salivating that dripped to the dying earth. No, I did not hear him until he spoke.
The stillness broke with a single voice. The cawing of crows sounded; a flutter of wings trying to escape the darkness. The dirt kicked up. I gasped, dropped my cutting knife, and backed away slowly. A great white horse pawed nervously at the dirt, and whinnied. I looked up, perhaps in fear or awe, at the white rider atop the massive beast. He was tall, even when saddled and sitting, with short, blond hair framing a serene face. What troubled me most were his eyes - dark, brooding, sorrowful eyes. He looked young, but his eyes were old. Ancient. As if he had seen countless deaths over the years, weighing him down, making his vision blurred and aged.
I knew who he was. The man whom my mother feared. The man she told me I should fear. The Winter King atop his white horse, living in his cold winterock palace. I looked at his eyes more closely, and I saw the deaths flash in a blur through his black eyes. And then once I again I saw my own reflection. But it wasn't me. No, it was an interpretation of me. That was my hair -windblown, my eyes - filled with wonderment, but that golden aura that surrounded me in his eyes was not right.
I saw him in his eyes next. The Winter King, and I knew his face. I gasped as the realization struck me. As a child I had waited and watched for him, wondering who he was. Wondering at his difference. This was Death. He was Death, this sorrowful rider atop his pale steed.
He said my name, "Persephone," in a low, rumbling voice. The wind stirred, and the ground shook.
I stepped back, nervously.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked sadly, his gloved hand falling into his lap.
I took a step forward. I was not afraid of him; I did not want to fear this sad, black-eyed rider. "Should I be?" I asked, with just a twinge of sauciness. Then I smiled at him, to show my impertinence was not meant to hurt him.
"Aye," he said in that voice of him. "You should be." He was beautiful, I noticed, dressed in this white glowing suit of armor. He looked like an angel. An angel called Death.
"But," I replied, "Milord, I am not afraid. I know who you are, and I do not fear you." I smiled again, tilting my head to one side, shyly. "You are the Winter King, whom my mother fears will take me away. You have been watching me for a long time."
"Yes," he breathed, and the world stirred with that breath. "I have been watching you for a long time."
"You will not take me away," I continued. "That will surely break my mother's heart. I am not ready to be taken from this world. I am not ready to die."
The beautiful face frowned slightly. "You will not die," he said.
"But you are Death," I countered, "You take life."
His face fell. The sad eyes drooped, suddenly taking my heart with it. I took a step forward, earnestly, trying to explain what I did not know how to say.
"That was not what I meant to say," I managed. He cut me off abruptly with a wave of his gloved hand.
"I understand," he said, sorrowfully. "That is who I am. It is only the truth. I cannot hide the truth." Something resounded in his voice, something that caught my attention. I gazed at him sharply.
"And will you take me away without my mother's consent?" I asked.
He jerked his head up, out of his despair, and gazed at me. His black eyes burned. I blushed. I was not used to young men, even if they were Death. "Yes," he said, without hesitating. "Will you come with me?" He continued, "I would rather you come of your own free will, rather than kicking and screaming."
I backed away, and looked at him with apprehension. "You say that I will not die, but what will become of me if I come with you? What lies in my future but death?"
He looked directly at me, and I saw myself reflected in his eyes again. His sad eyes bore a hungry look - a look of wanting and wishing for something to break the cold. I glanced away. His eyes were too direct, too much for me to look at now.
"I wish for you to become my queen," Death said.
And then the world shook uncontrollably. The ground beneath me split open with a roar, and I fell.
I remember seeing Death and its white horse leap after me, into this dark abyss. But the roaring drowned out most things, my thoughts, and my screaming. Yes, I screamed - my mouth opened into a black square to cry for my mother, but no sound came out. I was falling, and I had left my voice behind me, back in the forest.
***
Do you like it? Should I write more? Please review this and comment. I appreciate them a lot.
I wrote this in two days ..., but I hope there aren't many mistakes.
Yay!!! I finally am writing a fairy tale again (haven't wrote for this section in a loooong time.)