The Landing: Chapter 2 of Death's Lady
By Calcifersgrl
Author's Note: I know I haven't updated "Death's Lady" for a long time. But I was having trouble with this chapter – and I didn't know whether I could go any farther after Chapter 1, or whether I should just keep it as it was. Whatever your thoughts are about this chapter, please remember to read and review.
The cold air streamed past my pale face as I fell, and as I fell, the last fingertips of warm sunlight stroked my cheek from the world above and was gone. And my hair, my hair snaked upward as to if to grasp the waning sunlight with flailing tendrils. Suddenly, I stiffened. A cold, but strong arm secured itself around my waist, halting me for a second in my fall. I sucked in a breath – one of at first relief, then of terror. Death and his white horse had caught up with me, and together, the three of us bore on downward, towards what I supposed was the Underworld.
I did not struggle in his grasp; to struggle would have been meant using up energy that didn't need to be spent, and perhaps, it could have meant falling alone once more through this dark and seemingly endless void. Nor did I lax my control and give into what the gods may have deemed as my fate. No, I clung to his arm as my innards hurtled to my feet, closed my eyes in my terror, and silently cried for my mother.
Mother. I would never see her again.
We fell for what seemed an eternity – until slowly, the howling of the air ceased to shrill. The chariot had slowed. My hair fluttered down to rest on my shoulders, bringing slight warmth the numbness that had spread from the neck down. But even then, the chill wrapped about me like a shroud, sending the hairs on my body to protest in alarm. I was tempted to press closer to his rigid side, searching for warmth, but I reminded myself that I would find none. It was better to brave the cold alone. Darkness still consumed us, but I found I could breathe again, though the drafty air rattled hollowly in my lungs. He loosened his iron grip around my waist. We had landed.
He swung his legs over the horse's back, his black boots hardly scraping a sound from the landing. And as if by his command, the blackness was suddenly pierced by round, blistering fireballs. I clung tearfully to the horse, my hands trembling, my heart pounding. I was to die in this dark gloom, not a sad and lonely death, but one full of pain by burning . . . .
So absorbed was I in my thoughts that I made no move to displace myself from his steed. Death sighed softly and gently plucked me off its back as if I was no more than a wilted flower. I whimpered in feeble protest, but he made no move to set me down on my feet. Pressed tightly against his chest, I realized with sudden conviction of my bleary fate that the usual thumping of the heart was still. Death had no heart.
Even as I shuddered, I pressed my face against his still chest – at least I could hide the salty tears that streamed down my face. For I was ashamed of my tears – I, Persephone, was not meant for weeping. But as my tears skimmed down his gleaming suit of white armor, I freely thought about all the things I cried for: the sun, the blue sky, my mother, my world, life, itself. These . . . would be forever hidden from me, shrouded by an impenetrable wall of darkness and death.
He carried me closer and closer to the burning fireballs, and before I fainted in his arms, I realized that the fire was not a fiery hell, but torches . . . .
I awoke in a well-lit chamber, the vision before me blurry. My eyes cleared to the sight of a pale concerned face, inches above mine. Death gave a start as he realized my eyes were open. He drew back his head, the candlelight reflecting off his golden hair.
Almost like a halo, I thought. I was not wrong in my first impression that he looked like an angel. But his hair was so fair that it was almost white and, I reminded myself, that his chest did not pump with the blood of life. The god was as dead as his namesake.
He drew himself up, no longer in his imposing white armor, but in coarse robes of black. And when he spoke, his low voice, though addressed to me, was faraway. "Your eyes," he breathed, "are as blue as a midsummer's day . . ." he fell silent and continued, "I have seen such days far too few. Never have I had the chance to stop and admire."
The sheets clenched in my hands, I scrambled into a sitting position, my back stiff against the gold-gilded bars of the bed. Paralyzed at the tall, ungainly sight of him, my mind slowly unfroze to decipher his words. In a broken voice, I whispered, "If you let me go, milord, I will take you out under the open sky and teach you to make clouds take on the shape of animals. If you let me go, milord, I will teach you to make time stand still for yourself."
He proceeded, as if I had not even spoken, in an unearthly voice that sent tingles up my spine. "I have seen the sun, such a ghastly warmness that could melt the coldest of souls. I do not know how to appreciate the light that streams and shines on the land above and gives birth to life."
Some of my fear had ebbed. Despite being Death, he was not so menacing. But I remembered that he was my captor and I his captive, therefore I clutched the covers so hard, my knuckles turning to a ghostly bond-white, and whispered, "Why have you brought me here?"
He turned a blank face towards me, wiped of all emotion, ignoring me no longer. His black eyes gazed down with such intensity that I looked away. With a voice as cool and dim as the pulsating winter stars, he uttered the fatal words: "You are to become my queen." Again. Though, it was a shock when I heard them the second time. He had expressed such in the unearthly woods on the outskirts of my town, but to me, that reality was no longer real, no longer tangible. He had been unreal. But now, surrounded by shadows and gloom and dusk all year round, it had finally dawned on me that it was no mere boy professing his desire to make me queen of his world as I had become queen of his heart.
"And if I told you that I did not want to become your queen? That I would pass up your 'tantalizing' offer of a crown with rubies and a scepter encrusted with emeralds, only to see the blue sky again. I would be content to have a chain of daises for my crown, a fallen tree branch for my scepter. My ambition never ran beyond being my mother's daughter. I did not, milord, ask to become anyone's queen." I had not meant the bitterness to slip into my voice, but it crept out, inerasable and lasting in the stillness that had settled over the room.
His marble-smooth face was perturbed; a small blue vein that rested right above his brow bulged out of his otherwise colorless face, pulsing in agony. He straightened and looked squarely into my face: "Nor did I ask to travel down this path. I did not choose to chance upon you frolicking in the fields, a ray of sunshine dancing on this earthly element. I did not choose to crave something I never thought I would want. By the fates, I burn now where I never expected to burn."
He pressed a hand to where his heart might have been, and shuddered. He lifted his hand and displayed it to me, palm up. The smooth white flesh throbbed, unnaturally red. In my short life as a healer, I had been exposed to many wounds, but the sight I saw did not resonate with the countless injuries I had previously healed. Though the puckered flesh of his hand resembled that of one scorched, it did not have the telltale markings of a fire-burn. He continued, gesturing at his chest, "It has been hollow and ice for so long, and now I have been hearing the faint stirrings of a drum, of a heart beating, of blood pumping. Tell me, if this is any of my making! Had I been able to choose traveling down this road or another, I might have chosen the other. Or," he said, his voice lowering in volume to a husky quietness, "I might have chosen to assume this course. Had I the choice! But I did not. Did not the fates already predict this chapter in the threads of life? Your mother should have known. The fates have entwined your thread with mine, Persephone, for a reason. I do not believe this meeting is by chance."
I balled my fists up, shaking with the unreasonable fury that seemed to surge up like lava at the gentle passiveness in his voice, as if I was no more than a wayward beast that needed soothing. "How could it be chance, milord," I whispered through clenched teeth, "when you bore me down to the Underworld of your own free will?"
"My free will?" A look of surprise crossed his face. "I assure you – had you agreed to become my queen, I would have found a pleasanter way to travel to my land. No, the ground split open because Fate decreed that this meeting happen, and that Death should come to you. You fell and I had no choice but to chase after you."
"Then," I cried passionately, "If you do not wish me to be here anymore than I wish to be here, you must take me back to the surface! Please, milord."
With slow deliberation, he asked, "And dare unleash the fates' spite? Purposely thwart them to suit your own purpose? I think not." An odd look glimmered in his eyes: "I never meant to convey that I did not wish for you to be here, my dearest Persephone. It is all that I could hope for, but you are here under circumstances that I would change if given the chance." Then to himself, he mused in a low voice, "The irony of the fates. Cupid's arrow has struck well!"
I gave a small start and then whispered in a tiny defeated voice that I almost did not recognize as mine: "You are in love with me." Not a question, but a statement, asking for confirmation.
Death confirmed by nodding wordlessly. Then he awkwardly ducked his head, self-conscious.
I parted my lips to utter out a small, "Oh," but my lips only formed the word and the sound did not erupt from my lungs. It had never registered that I was to be more than a souvenir from the living world, a bit of sunshine that he had wanted to pocket, something pretty to be admired and put on display.
And now, I learned the answer was love.
I had grown up with warmth and love, and all he had for comfort was a foul hole of despair and death. And yet despite my loving childhood, he wanted more than I could give. I had never loved the way he claimed he loved me. And even if I could come to admire him, which I daren't think I would – him having (honorably) refused to send me home - I could never come to love him. He was Death – he could not love, he could only take away life.
Perplexed and feeling every bit as self-conscious as he, the "Oh," finally popped out of my mouth, audible and small. I pressed my lips together in a thin line, embarrassed as the awkwardness of the silence pounded at both of us, reflecting that the latest discovery would prove a difficult problem indeed.
***
Author's 2nd Note:
If you think it's okay, tell me so. I don't know how much the story style has changed cuz I haven't looked at this for five months?
By Calcifersgrl
Author's Note: I know I haven't updated "Death's Lady" for a long time. But I was having trouble with this chapter – and I didn't know whether I could go any farther after Chapter 1, or whether I should just keep it as it was. Whatever your thoughts are about this chapter, please remember to read and review.
The cold air streamed past my pale face as I fell, and as I fell, the last fingertips of warm sunlight stroked my cheek from the world above and was gone. And my hair, my hair snaked upward as to if to grasp the waning sunlight with flailing tendrils. Suddenly, I stiffened. A cold, but strong arm secured itself around my waist, halting me for a second in my fall. I sucked in a breath – one of at first relief, then of terror. Death and his white horse had caught up with me, and together, the three of us bore on downward, towards what I supposed was the Underworld.
I did not struggle in his grasp; to struggle would have been meant using up energy that didn't need to be spent, and perhaps, it could have meant falling alone once more through this dark and seemingly endless void. Nor did I lax my control and give into what the gods may have deemed as my fate. No, I clung to his arm as my innards hurtled to my feet, closed my eyes in my terror, and silently cried for my mother.
Mother. I would never see her again.
We fell for what seemed an eternity – until slowly, the howling of the air ceased to shrill. The chariot had slowed. My hair fluttered down to rest on my shoulders, bringing slight warmth the numbness that had spread from the neck down. But even then, the chill wrapped about me like a shroud, sending the hairs on my body to protest in alarm. I was tempted to press closer to his rigid side, searching for warmth, but I reminded myself that I would find none. It was better to brave the cold alone. Darkness still consumed us, but I found I could breathe again, though the drafty air rattled hollowly in my lungs. He loosened his iron grip around my waist. We had landed.
He swung his legs over the horse's back, his black boots hardly scraping a sound from the landing. And as if by his command, the blackness was suddenly pierced by round, blistering fireballs. I clung tearfully to the horse, my hands trembling, my heart pounding. I was to die in this dark gloom, not a sad and lonely death, but one full of pain by burning . . . .
So absorbed was I in my thoughts that I made no move to displace myself from his steed. Death sighed softly and gently plucked me off its back as if I was no more than a wilted flower. I whimpered in feeble protest, but he made no move to set me down on my feet. Pressed tightly against his chest, I realized with sudden conviction of my bleary fate that the usual thumping of the heart was still. Death had no heart.
Even as I shuddered, I pressed my face against his still chest – at least I could hide the salty tears that streamed down my face. For I was ashamed of my tears – I, Persephone, was not meant for weeping. But as my tears skimmed down his gleaming suit of white armor, I freely thought about all the things I cried for: the sun, the blue sky, my mother, my world, life, itself. These . . . would be forever hidden from me, shrouded by an impenetrable wall of darkness and death.
He carried me closer and closer to the burning fireballs, and before I fainted in his arms, I realized that the fire was not a fiery hell, but torches . . . .
I awoke in a well-lit chamber, the vision before me blurry. My eyes cleared to the sight of a pale concerned face, inches above mine. Death gave a start as he realized my eyes were open. He drew back his head, the candlelight reflecting off his golden hair.
Almost like a halo, I thought. I was not wrong in my first impression that he looked like an angel. But his hair was so fair that it was almost white and, I reminded myself, that his chest did not pump with the blood of life. The god was as dead as his namesake.
He drew himself up, no longer in his imposing white armor, but in coarse robes of black. And when he spoke, his low voice, though addressed to me, was faraway. "Your eyes," he breathed, "are as blue as a midsummer's day . . ." he fell silent and continued, "I have seen such days far too few. Never have I had the chance to stop and admire."
The sheets clenched in my hands, I scrambled into a sitting position, my back stiff against the gold-gilded bars of the bed. Paralyzed at the tall, ungainly sight of him, my mind slowly unfroze to decipher his words. In a broken voice, I whispered, "If you let me go, milord, I will take you out under the open sky and teach you to make clouds take on the shape of animals. If you let me go, milord, I will teach you to make time stand still for yourself."
He proceeded, as if I had not even spoken, in an unearthly voice that sent tingles up my spine. "I have seen the sun, such a ghastly warmness that could melt the coldest of souls. I do not know how to appreciate the light that streams and shines on the land above and gives birth to life."
Some of my fear had ebbed. Despite being Death, he was not so menacing. But I remembered that he was my captor and I his captive, therefore I clutched the covers so hard, my knuckles turning to a ghostly bond-white, and whispered, "Why have you brought me here?"
He turned a blank face towards me, wiped of all emotion, ignoring me no longer. His black eyes gazed down with such intensity that I looked away. With a voice as cool and dim as the pulsating winter stars, he uttered the fatal words: "You are to become my queen." Again. Though, it was a shock when I heard them the second time. He had expressed such in the unearthly woods on the outskirts of my town, but to me, that reality was no longer real, no longer tangible. He had been unreal. But now, surrounded by shadows and gloom and dusk all year round, it had finally dawned on me that it was no mere boy professing his desire to make me queen of his world as I had become queen of his heart.
"And if I told you that I did not want to become your queen? That I would pass up your 'tantalizing' offer of a crown with rubies and a scepter encrusted with emeralds, only to see the blue sky again. I would be content to have a chain of daises for my crown, a fallen tree branch for my scepter. My ambition never ran beyond being my mother's daughter. I did not, milord, ask to become anyone's queen." I had not meant the bitterness to slip into my voice, but it crept out, inerasable and lasting in the stillness that had settled over the room.
His marble-smooth face was perturbed; a small blue vein that rested right above his brow bulged out of his otherwise colorless face, pulsing in agony. He straightened and looked squarely into my face: "Nor did I ask to travel down this path. I did not choose to chance upon you frolicking in the fields, a ray of sunshine dancing on this earthly element. I did not choose to crave something I never thought I would want. By the fates, I burn now where I never expected to burn."
He pressed a hand to where his heart might have been, and shuddered. He lifted his hand and displayed it to me, palm up. The smooth white flesh throbbed, unnaturally red. In my short life as a healer, I had been exposed to many wounds, but the sight I saw did not resonate with the countless injuries I had previously healed. Though the puckered flesh of his hand resembled that of one scorched, it did not have the telltale markings of a fire-burn. He continued, gesturing at his chest, "It has been hollow and ice for so long, and now I have been hearing the faint stirrings of a drum, of a heart beating, of blood pumping. Tell me, if this is any of my making! Had I been able to choose traveling down this road or another, I might have chosen the other. Or," he said, his voice lowering in volume to a husky quietness, "I might have chosen to assume this course. Had I the choice! But I did not. Did not the fates already predict this chapter in the threads of life? Your mother should have known. The fates have entwined your thread with mine, Persephone, for a reason. I do not believe this meeting is by chance."
I balled my fists up, shaking with the unreasonable fury that seemed to surge up like lava at the gentle passiveness in his voice, as if I was no more than a wayward beast that needed soothing. "How could it be chance, milord," I whispered through clenched teeth, "when you bore me down to the Underworld of your own free will?"
"My free will?" A look of surprise crossed his face. "I assure you – had you agreed to become my queen, I would have found a pleasanter way to travel to my land. No, the ground split open because Fate decreed that this meeting happen, and that Death should come to you. You fell and I had no choice but to chase after you."
"Then," I cried passionately, "If you do not wish me to be here anymore than I wish to be here, you must take me back to the surface! Please, milord."
With slow deliberation, he asked, "And dare unleash the fates' spite? Purposely thwart them to suit your own purpose? I think not." An odd look glimmered in his eyes: "I never meant to convey that I did not wish for you to be here, my dearest Persephone. It is all that I could hope for, but you are here under circumstances that I would change if given the chance." Then to himself, he mused in a low voice, "The irony of the fates. Cupid's arrow has struck well!"
I gave a small start and then whispered in a tiny defeated voice that I almost did not recognize as mine: "You are in love with me." Not a question, but a statement, asking for confirmation.
Death confirmed by nodding wordlessly. Then he awkwardly ducked his head, self-conscious.
I parted my lips to utter out a small, "Oh," but my lips only formed the word and the sound did not erupt from my lungs. It had never registered that I was to be more than a souvenir from the living world, a bit of sunshine that he had wanted to pocket, something pretty to be admired and put on display.
And now, I learned the answer was love.
I had grown up with warmth and love, and all he had for comfort was a foul hole of despair and death. And yet despite my loving childhood, he wanted more than I could give. I had never loved the way he claimed he loved me. And even if I could come to admire him, which I daren't think I would – him having (honorably) refused to send me home - I could never come to love him. He was Death – he could not love, he could only take away life.
Perplexed and feeling every bit as self-conscious as he, the "Oh," finally popped out of my mouth, audible and small. I pressed my lips together in a thin line, embarrassed as the awkwardness of the silence pounded at both of us, reflecting that the latest discovery would prove a difficult problem indeed.
***
Author's 2nd Note:
If you think it's okay, tell me so. I don't know how much the story style has changed cuz I haven't looked at this for five months?