Death’s Keep.
Chapter 8
The mist was a grey curtain, and then Percy was walking through a pale cobweb forest. The web filaments were all around and she blinked, her lashes trembling, her skin filling with primeval unconscious shudders of revulsion at the strange faint touch.
She knew this place . . . it was the Hall of bones, the grand sepulcher with columns curving upwards into arches of ribcage, and overhead swayed the endless ocean of webs and a strange dark starry sky that was neither true sky nor true stars.
Only a few steps away before her, through the veil of cobwebs, began the dais of Death’s Ivory Throne.
It stood empty, with no one seated there.
Percy blinked.
And then in the next blink, she saw him. Dark and beautiful and pitch-black, with skin the color of jet, and ebony eyes, and hair so black it had a bluish tint, dressed in a tunic of swirling silver and darkness, Hades sat upon the Throne.
“Lord Death . . .” Percy said, feeling suddenly all alone—for indeed, for the first time of the many times she had been here in Death’s Hall, she truly was. “Lord Hades.”
The dark God’s face had been averted, as if he had been looking into eternity, and she had somehow interrupted his brooding thoughts.
“You have come back, my Champion,” said Hades, Lord Death, turning his head and training the impossible, fathomless black eyes upon her. “But you do not have my Cobweb Bride.”
“No,” Percy said, “I am sorry, I do not. I am truly sorry, Lord Death, but the Lady Leonora is not quite—ready to accept her fate. And I am afraid but I cannot force her to it—at least not yet.”
“Ah . . .” Hades spoke sadly. “No one is ever ready for their fate. Such is the paradox of mortality that to be ready for death is to not be alive. Indeed, the moment one of you mortals decides they have had enough of living is when they are no longer mortal. But ah, what am I saying?—I may not divulge such occult mysteries to your kind—not even to you, my Champion. See how weakened I have become . . . even now, as I sit and wait for her to come to me, to arrive here in this forsaken Hall, the limits of my divine function fail me, my tongue is loosened, and I am made to speak secrets of immortality. Enough!”
“I am not sure I understand,” said Percy. “But I wanted to tell you what I have learned of your—of the Goddess Persephone.” And Percy repeated the events told her by Lady Leonora.
Hades listened, looking into space filled with the gossamer of cobwebs, and past her, and his divine visage showed nothing.
“So this is what she did . . .” he uttered at last. “My only love drank the water of Lethe thrice and more, in secret, long before she had been given to drink a mere sip by the Mother of Bright Harvest, blessed Demeter! My love was already harmed beyond mending long before we knew it—long before we tried to help her in her despair! Ah, woe! This I had not known!”
And Hades leaned with his pitch-black muscular arm on the Throne of ivory, and he rested his forehead in his hand. His silken filaments of midnight hair moved in an invisible wind, and at times appeared to be ghostly serpents.
“If I might ask, My Lord Hades, what exactly happened to cause all this? How come the gods to be broken in the first place? How can it even be?” Percy knew that the questions she asked were daring and were likely not to be answered.
But the Lord of the Underworld gifted her with an intimate look of his heavy eyes, and he started to speak.
“You mortals think that gods are eternal, inviolate, and powerful. Truth is, we are like glass—fixed, limited, and fragile—for we are defined by our divine function. Glass is unyielding, but it is easily broken if forced to bend or to take on another shape, unless it is first returned to a molten state through fire. When a god deviates from his function, he is vulnerable to the forces of the Universal Scheme, and shatters like glass from the conforming pressures of the surrounding universe. It is said that gods are molded and forged—and once we are fixed into the final shape of our function, we may only perform it and none other.”
“What a strange thing!” Percy said.
Hades wore a bitter smile.
“I will tell you this dark story, my Champion, for the world has little time left, and I might as well. It started long ago—far longer than you mortals can know or even imagine, for time works differently for us. We gods ride time in all directions while you follow a straight linear path of your own making, a path that you yourselves believe leads forward, but in truth simply marks an endless circle. There are as many circles as there are individuals. Each circle is different from the others—offset in a unique manner, a tiny bit or a great distance, in every conceivable direction and being of every size—and when all of the circles are put together and superimposed, they give shape to the Grand Sphere that is the universe—an eternal thing of infinite plurality that we gods both observe and maintain while you mortals merely tread and fill with both wonder and woe all of which then comes with you on the journey.
“Do not be discouraged by the ultimate circularity of your path—it is so vast that you have no way of grasping it. Nor should you be bothered by it, but take comfort that there is no end—for circularity is fate, or the promise of continuity. Instead accept the glorious reality that along each point in your path you have the ability to make different choices—for that is your free will. Indeed, both gods and mortals travel the circles—you do it unknowingly, while we do it with intent. And it changes you, while we gods remain the same.
“And thus, a long time ago, at some point along the circle which she and I both travel, Persephone, the Goddess of Resurrection—she who is my consort and my only love, and who keeps the world itself moving—Persephone paused for one moment in her divine function and looked back at herself. And seeing herself thus, from a strange alien perspective of other, of someone else looking at herself from the outside, she realized some things that should not be realized, not even by the gods. And she knew a moment of doubt in herself and her function, and with it a moment of being abysmally alone. It was not true, of course, for the concepts of aloneness and of union are both an illusion of moving time. But it was just enough to throw Persephone slightly off balance, and to give her cause to desire more for herself than she already had.
“You might wonder—how can one who already has the entire world feel they need anything more? But it was such a small thing, fueled by a tiny bit of curiosity, and a bit of self-reflection, and Persephone did not think it would make any difference in the greater scheme. And thus, Persephone, continuing to think along the lines of ‘self” and ‘other,’ decided to take a tiny bit of the world and keep it entirely for herself. It was not enough that she already had everything, since that all-encompassing ‘everything’ also had to be shared with all the rest of the universe, the gods and the mortals. No, she wanted something completely her own.
“And Persephone gave birth to a child in the Underworld.”
“Melinoë,” Percy said astutely.
Hades nodded. “Yes.” He continued looking at Percy, and his steady gaze was rich and mesmerizing, and with it came vertigo, and a strange sensual overpowering flood of warmth that made Percy flush and think of Beltain.
“My . . . Champion,” said Hades softly. “I must explain some things to you now, things that may be difficult for you to fathom because of your innocence. But they must be divulged before you can even begin to understand.”
“I—” Percy’s blush deepened further, the longer she looked at the dark God, falling in and out of sensual vertigo, drowning and then rising again in her mind. It seemed she was stranded at the shore of a great sea, with sweeping waves coming every few breaths to pull her under, then releasing her once more into the moist sand to regain her footing and stand upright on unsteady legs, feet sinking into the shifting quagmire of land yielding to water. . . .
Percy blinked, steadying herself on the inside, steeling herself for a loss of innocence and the gain of revelation.
“It is t
hus,” spoke the dark God. “All the gods have their specific eternal functions. Persephone and I, we create the cycle of life and death—a circle in itself, an overlying Grand Pattern of movement that shapes the nature of all others—and hence we power the engine of the mortal and immortal world. We are mated, she and I. And our act of union every season generates and restarts new life . . . along the infinity of circles and worlds and indeed the entire Sphere of the universe.
“A long time ago, before we had attained our functions, I emerged out of my personal half-life and darkness into the world of light and saw Persephone for the first time—a young radiant goddess, in a field of blooming flowers underneath a blue sky. I saw her and she saw me, and we recognized ourselves in the other, just as the sun and moon appeared in the heavens in that exact instant—for indeed we gave them physical form. I saw her light and she saw my darkness. . . . And immediately we were thus bound by abysmal inviolate desire, need, and love—the thing that brought us together and unknowingly fixed us in the scheme of the world. It was then I took her to me—took her down with me Below.
“It had to be done. For I am of Below, and she was of Above, and by taking her, I transformed her, deepened her into her true self, so that suddenly she was both—both Above and Below, both light and dark, and thus complete and full to overflowing with the energy of the world.”
“You took her to the Underworld! You stole her away from her divine grieving mother! Oh, I do know that strange sad story. . . . My own mother had told it to my sisters and me many times,” Percy whispered.
“But no, you do not know the full of it, not the true story,” Hades replied. “For I ‘stole’ her only in a sense of mythic metaphor, stole her from her former self, as much as she allowed herself to be stolen and changed by the act of love. . . . For she desired me as much as I burned for her, if not more—even now I wonder which one of us it was that looked at the other first in that blessed ancient field of flowers older than time. And in truth, as she was changed, so was I. No stories ever tell this secret part, but I too had become both—I was now a deity of both Below and Above.
“Furthermore, it is how Death was born—Death the White Bridegroom—for he is my Above aspect, and he exists only for the mortal world, for all of you—not to cause pain and destruction but to bring relief and transition into the light. It was inevitable and it was the birth of our common function. You see, this happened so long ago, that there is no way to describe it all in your mortal reckoning. All you mortals know is the fearful simplified story told infinite times and transformed by the imperfect act of telling—transformed almost as much as we have been. . . . Which in itself is an impossibility, for gods cannot change, but we were, by each other.”
“So you’re saying that Death did not exist until you met Persephone?” Percy stared in amazement.
“Yes. And neither did the mortal world exist as you now know it to be. Everything was new back then, primeval, raw, formless as clay and fire, as titans and giants existed with the gods in virile strife, and ancient divine wars were fought for meaningless supremacy. And Persephone and I, coming together as we did, refined our separate functions and created the way things are now.”
“What of Melinoë?”
Hades momentarily averted his gaze, as a wave of old grief returned. “Persephone and I come together every autumn season. When we love, as a result of our union we recreate life for each spring. Our function made it so that Persephone has to be Above and Below for half of each year, in order to make the cycle happen. She sits down on my Dark Throne in the Underworld and—and she emerges on the Sapphire Throne in the mortal world—”
His words faded strangely, and Percy saw that his perfectly black eyes were brimming full of liquid, and it made their darkness change in nature, attain a strange pallid gleam, like a film of quicksilver on the surface.
“This is the part that will change you, and take away your innocence,” Hades whispered. “You see, in order for Persephone to move from one world to the other, from Above to Below, and back again, she has to die. To enter the Underworld, my love dies in the mortal world. And to come back, she has to die again.
“When autumn comes to the world of light and leaves turn the color of flames, and the Bright Harvest ripens and is gathered by her divine mother Demeter, and all you mortals celebrate the fruits of plenty, it is when Persephone sits down on the Sapphire Throne and dies for you, in order for the cycle to begin again. As she dies, the world receives the entirety of her life force in the great sacrifice that precedes the coming of winter. She is dissolved and her life spills over into the universe. It fills the expanses of physical matter, of earth, sun, and stars, and it makes the universe resonate with completion, with the stately slowing movement of light falling into the profound deep. Only then, when all is done, the earth lies fallow, and the song of the spheres is sung, her essence sinks gently beneath, into the depths, until it emerges Below. It is then that she is given divine form again and awakes in the Underworld, seated on the Black Throne. We are reunited, we are—we—” His words again failed.
For a brief moment he too seemed to sink away and dissolve with the memory, and then he resumed: “And afterwards, when it is time for spring, she sits down on the Black Throne—only this time she is full to overflowing with the new seed of mortal life—and she closes her eyes and dies again, for all of you, exploding forth in a fountain of birth and rising into the mortal world, to bring all things to fruition and to begin the new cycle of light. This time her energy seeds the earth with the new life force, enacting the great resurrection that is the coming of spring. Over and over she dies, twice every season, and she has been dying thus since time untold. . . .”
“I did not know! I am so sorry. . . .” Percy looked at the dark God with compassion.
But Hades continued. “It hurts her to die. Each time it happens, it hurts her, and it destroys her completely. Even I cannot imagine how it is, for an immortal to be destroyed thus and recreated anew, what immeasurable agony. For, it is such a perfect dissolution of will, of self, and of power, that there is no mortal equivalent. And Death—my own aspect—cannot help her in this. My poor long-suffering love—she is the only one who may not be conducted by the White Bridegroom into the light. I can only stand by and watch her passing. It is my curse!”
Hades wept silently, his face stone, and the cobweb forest of filaments floating in the air all around them stopped moving, so abysmally still the Hall had become.
“And now, I will at last speak of Melinoë,” he uttered suddenly. “Now that you know what Persephone must go through over and over, unto eternity, now you can better understand the beginning of my story where I had told you how Persephone has once paused and questioned her function. One season—over a hundred of your mortal years ago—before emerging Above, Persephone lingered in the Underworld. Instead of sitting on the Black Throne, she stood in the dark resplendent chamber and she pressed her hands lightly upon her richly filled womb and she birthed a fine delicate girl of shadows. Out the child came, pouring down between her legs like a ghost, or a bit of gentle vapor, barely moving the fine fabric of her long chiton in passing. She was such a tiny infant, but perfect in every way, except that she was half smoke and half tangible.
“Now, you must know that nothing has ever been born before in the Underworld—it is an impossibility, the Underworld being the original barren place, the home of death. And yet, here she was, a girl of shadows, imbued with peculiar life.
“Persephone exclaimed with delight, and she handed me the child, and told me to care for her and look after her until she returned. And then Persephone sat down on the Black Throne as usual, and for once she sighed with contentment, and then closed her eyes and died and then was gone. I admit, I was stunned and still filled with amazement at the circumstances, but now there was also joy at this new wondrous responsibility—my paternity I had never expected, for there had never been room for children in the strange confines of our divine function. I will
only say now that the girl of shadows grew and flourished, keeping me wondrous company in the long days while I waited for my love to return Below.
“When Persephone was back, we named our child Melinoë. We cherished her and gave her wonders of the Underworld to eat and drink and play with. For although the Underworld is only a small place—consisting merely of a palatial house of seven chambers, and all around it is pure darkness and the bowels of the earth—it has enough riches and sparkling black diamonds to buy all the Kingdoms of the mortal world. Suffice it to say, our daughter grew and thrived, and as seasons passed Above, she became a young woman. She was always shadow-pale and faint and not quite tangible, and yet she was more real for us than any creature of the mortal earth. And as Melinoë spent time with me while her mother was away Above, she asked me questions of both worlds. There was only so much I could answer through the years, and eventually all answers had been exhausted. At last, Melinoë told us that she wanted to see the mortal world for herself.
“Both her mother and I were reluctant at first, and I had my deepest suspicions that this shadow daughter of ours would not survive the journey or the destination. But Melinoë grew sadder every season, and at last Persephone’s heart could not bear it. Neither one of us could deny our child anything for long. And yet, before allowing her to go, I consulted with the other gods. I asked my brothers, Zeus of the Sky and Poseidon of the Sea, and they in turn asked all the lesser gods. One of our divine sisters, the Goddess Hecate—she who rules Choices and Entrances and dark mysteries of the deep equally as she rules the sky, the firmament, and the sea—she strongly argued against allowing Melinoë to visit the world Above. Hecate has wisdom and sense, and her knowledge is thrice as profound as any other deity. I was convinced, but apparently my beloved was not.
“And thus, on the day designated to be the one preceding spring, Persephone sat down on the Black Throne and she seated Melinoë on her lap, and with arms wrapped around each other, my two most beloved ones died together, and were dissolved, gone from me—while I watched, with a feeling that was the precursor of despair.