Receiver of Many

by Rachel Alexander

  Aidoneus nodded, staring across the dimly lit expanse of the Styx outside the terrace of his throne room, distracted and deep in thought. “Perhaps.”

  “If you no longer require me, I’ll rejoin my brother and Aeacus at the Trivium.”

  “You may do so. Goodnight, Minos.”

  The judge nodded to his king and shut the door of the throne room behind him.

  ***

  Her every footfall was filled by small flowers, and Kore glanced back to admire the bunches of larkspur climbing toward the sun along the roadside. She skipped, and soft petals grew under her springing feet. She twirled, and left a spray of purple irises all around her.

  “My lady!” Kore vaguely heard Minthe call out behind her, the blonde nymph jogging to catch up. “Please, milady, we must stay within these fields.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Kore brushed her hand across the bare earth. “You needn’t worry about straying from your river. What could possibly harm you?” Roses, thorny and thick with pink blossoms, circled them. “I can protect you better than you can protect me, Minthe.”

  “That’s not what worries me, milady. Your mother said—”

  “She wouldn’t object to this,” Kore said, rolling her eyes. “We’d have to walk this road for half a day before we left the Thriasian plain, and there is no one for miles around!”

  A fan of scattered crocus spread across the field as she ran. The pale naiad picked up her skirts and chased after the maiden goddess. “Wait! Lady Kore! Please!”

  “Besides, Minthe, even if we were to see someone, Mother taught me long ago how to make myself—” She stopped cold and staggered back. White lilies crowded around her, perfuming the air, heady and sickly sweet. Kore’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes grew wide.

  “What’s wrong?” Minthe said, catching up with her. A yearling fawn sprawled on the ground before them, bunches of beguiling aconite growing all around it. Its eyes were vacant and its mouth held a half-chewed wad of its last, poisonous meal. Flies swarmed its face. Minthe grasped Kore by the wrist, startling her. “Come, milady, you don’t need to see this.”

  “Why not?” Kore answered distantly, rooted to the earth.

  “It’s ugly and… it’s…” Minthe tugged at Kore’s wrist again, encouraging her to continue down the road, to grow more roses, to forget the fallen deer. “Your mother wouldn’t like it if she knew you were troubling yourself with such things.”

  “Why would she care? I’ve seen this before; it’s part of life.”

  The naiad’s mouth went dry. “But I can’t… your mother told me to act in her stead. You are an earth goddess of young life and blooming things. She wouldn’t want you around anything… a-anything that’s…”

  Kore gave the nervous nymph a half-smile. “Dead?”

  Minthe nodded and wrung her hands.

  She giggled. “Please, Minthe. There’s dead grass under the plants, and insects, and…” She broke out into full-throated laughter. “Did you think she meant you to keep me away from all of that?”

  “No,” the blonde naiad muttered. “Only the bad things.”

  “The bad things.” Kore cocked her head to the side. “Like what?”

  Minthe fidgeted.

  Kore grasped Minthe’s hand and they walked away. Violets peeked out of the earth along their path. She wasn’t altogether fond of being escorted through the fields like a little girl, especially by a nymph who was younger than her. But Kore knew that Minthe didn’t, couldn’t discuss certain things with her— that myriad topics were forbidden by her mother or simply made the poor naiad uncomfortable. Mating was off limits, and no topic was more forbidden than the process of decay in the fields behind them. “Alright, Minthe, we’ll not talk about it.”

  “Thank you, milady,” she sighed in relief.

  “But your mother was from the river that flows through the world below, where the dead belong, wasn’t she? The place where the spirit of that deer went…”

  “I…” Minthe tensed again.

  “Let’s not talk about the ‘bad things’, Minthe. But…”

  “Yes?”

  “What about something good? Surely there must be one thing. Tell me something else about the world below.”

  “I-I know very little,” she demurred. “I wasn’t born there.”

  “Please?”

  Minthe looked to the clouds above them, trying to find something to appease Kore’s insatiable curiosity and end this conversation. A butterfly flew overhead, settling on a flower. More followed, clustering around the sweet violets. “Well… my mother told me something once, a very sweet idea. I don’t know if it’s true, though…”

  Kore licked her lips, ready to devour anything Minthe offered.

  “She said that sometimes mortal souls get lost on their way to the world below.”

  “What happens to them?”

  “She said they grow little wings and become butterflies. They find their way back faster because their lives are short. But sometimes, if they loved someone deeply, they will find the one they lost, and journey to the Land of the Dead together.”

  Kore clasped her hands together and grinned. “What a lovely idea! I wonder if that’s true of the butterflies who found my thistle today.”

  “What?”

  “I grew a thistle this morning so the little copper butterflies could have a place to rest. Maybe they are wandering souls that needed to find each other and journey to the Other Side together.”

  Minthe grew pale. “F-forget what I said.”

  “Why? It’s sad, but I think it’s lovely, honestly.”

  “Milady, please! Please don’t tell your mother what I said!” She looked horrified.

  Kore raised a confused eyebrow. “I won’t. I didn’t plan to, anyway. But why should my mother be troubled by the Land of the Dead?”

  ***

  The antechamber was dark, but Aidoneus didn’t bother lighting torches. He strode the familiar path across the room, one he’d trod for millennia, and entered his bedchamber.

  He removed his crown, robes, and rings, then drew the bed curtains, shrouding himself in total darkness. Aidoneus pulled up the cool bedclothes and closed his eyes. He slept in fits and starts, just as he always had, but if he lay still and purged his mind of thoughts and cares, sleep would come. Eventually, his body slackened and his breath became slow and measured. In his mind’s eye dark and light coalesced and resolved, gaining form.

  When he saw narcissus flowers dappled with sunlight, he knew. Fates, he thought, why now?

  The dream, repeated throughout the aeons of his rule, hadn’t manifested for centuries. But this past fortnight, every time he shut his eyes, there she was— lying entwined with him in a shaded grove, with flowers growing all around them.

  Her face was hidden— it was always hidden. He got teasing glimpses: a flash of russet hair, his hand on her flared hips, her flower-trimmed ankles brushing against his shins, her soft fingers dancing across his skin. Her hand brushed across his chest and down his stomach. He closed his eyes, felt her breath on his cheek, and heard her whisper his familiar name into his ear.

  Aidon…

  He turned and captured her lips in a kiss, tasting distant memories of sunlight and heady new life springing from the earth. He could not see her, but he knew it was her— his unknown betrothed— that haunted his dreams. It was her that inexorably drew him to this shaded bed of white and yellow-trumpeted flowers time and time again. Her fingers tangled in his hair and he carefully rolled over her.

  Aidon…

  His pulse quickened as she encircled him in her arms, drawing him closer and covering her supine body with his. He grew hungry for her, giving in to the delights of skin upon skin, his mouth upon hers. The dream was always like this. He would caress her, she would kiss him, their hands, their mouths demanding more. These motions were familiar— their dance repeated across the aeons.

  My lord husband, she said within his very thoughts. Come to me… Find
me, Aidoneus.

  He awoke with a start.

  “Persephone…” Her name exploded from his lungs, and he lay back, light headed with the same rampant need he’d had for her in the dream—aching, and unfulfilled. It was always unfulfilled. Every time his body compelled him to complete their union within the dream, he would awaken. But this time was different.

  She’d never whispered anything more than his name. Why did she call for him? Why now? Aidoneus breathed deeply and wiped the sweat from his face. He closed his eyes, shaking off the heady sensations of the dream world. After the ache subsided, he threw off the sheets and rose. He was grateful for the handful of hours he’d been able to lie still.

  He couldn’t banish the dream. He was certain the Fates wouldn’t allow that. Morpheus had told him plainly aeons ago that there was nothing he could do. And any remedy Hypnos offered by way of poppies allowed deeper, darker things to dominate his dreams.

  Aidoneus scooped a handful of water from the basin in his room and splashed it across his body before attacking his skin with oil, pumice stone, and a metal strigil. After he shaved his neck and upper lip with a razor, he neatly pulled back his long black hair with a golden torc, dressed, and opened the door to the antechamber. A figure stood by the window. He stiffly drew back his shoulders, annoyed.

  Hecate turned from the open window, a knowing smile on her face. “Tonight is the full moon, my lord.”

  “That’s hardly worth the intrusion,” he said, knowing where this conversation was headed. “The moon waxed and waned before any of us came to be.”

  “Hermes’s sandals alight here today, no? He will ask if you have any message for Olympus…”

  “Yes.” Aidoneus strode across the room, trying to avoid her next question.

  “She danced in your dreams again, didn’t she?”

  He stopped.

  “Were the steps the same as ever?” Hecate asked, walking toward him. “Or different this time?”

  “I don’t know why you bother with questions to which you already know the answer.”

  She smiled. “Different, then. What did she whisper?” He thinned his lips and looked at her helplessly. Hecate already knew exactly what she’d said. “It’s time, Aidon. The moon is full.”

  ***

  “And Thassos?”

  “Lovely, as always,” Demeter said. Kore picked a few violets, weaving them into a crown. Demeter gave her an orange poppy, and Kore smiled, adding the finishing touch. “More importantly, their crops grow thick this year. The harvest will provide for them all.”

  “I’d love to see Thassos some time.” Kore clasped her hands behind her back. “So… the meeting of the Olympians is today…”

  “Yes, it is. I will leave shortly. Minthe will keep you company.”

  “ I don’t want to be kept company, Mother. I wonder if I could go with you this time.” Kore raised her eyebrows and grinned. Demeter’s face fell.

  “I cannot watch over you there. You’ve seen what a rage your father can get into,” she said, gesturing toward the gathering clouds, “and some of your cousins are… not to be trusted.” Zeus’s thunder cracked the northern sky, calling the twelve Olympians to court.

  “But I’m the first born of the cousins and have only been to the Mount once, Mother,” Kore pleaded. “And that was aeons ago, when I was too young to remember it.”

  Demeter sighed. “Sweet child, I promise you can come with me someday… But not today.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “That is my final word,” she said.

  Kore folded her arms and turned away. “Fine. Someday.”

  Demeter squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. “Next time the gods assemble, I will take you with me.”

  Eyes lighting up again, she turned to her mother.

  “If,” Demeter continued, “and only if, you promise not to speak with Hermes or Apollo.”

  “Really?” she smiled, knowing she could find a way around Demeter’s restrictions.

  “Yes, child.” Another rumble of thunder rolled through the plain. “I must go. Minthe will meet you by the river.”

  ***

  “I don’t understand why she doesn’t join us,” Hephaestus said, pouring another glass of nectar for Demeter. “She works far too hard.”

  Demeter smiled thinly at her nephew. “She’s… shy. Kore prefers the fields and flowers. She’s remarkably talented. You should see what she created yesterday.”

  “I’m sure my cousin’s flowers are lovely. But she does the job of a nymph, not what she was born to do. Persephone might not feel at ease in court, but I’m here, and… well, look at me!”

  Demeter shared a strained laugh with the crippled Blacksmith. She had worked all her life to protect Kore from the advances of the immortals. Zeus had fallen for woman after woman, human and immortal alike, and Queen Hera had fallen into petty jealousy and vengeance. Demeter hated to admit it, but Aidoneus had been right, about that at least. That could have been her.

  Zeus sprawled on a cushioned divan, leaning on his elbow toward Apollo. His baritone carried over the chatter that filled the hall. “…as a bull, I tell you!” He grinned and gestured lewdly. Apollo threw his head back and guffawed. Demeter pursed her lips, remembering the lengths Daphne had gone to escape Apollo. The sons of Zeus were worse still— Kore would never suffer at their hands.

  In a blur, Hermes flew through the white portico columns that stretched across the hillside of Olympus. The Messenger alighted and strode forward, gripping his caduceus with white knuckles. He whispered in Zeus’s ear.

  “Impossible! He hasn’t left that place since…” The Ruler of the Sky’s voice grew irritated. “Why would he come here for that?”

  The king rose from his divan and climbed the steps to the top of his marble dais, settling onto his throne. He motioned to Hera, who obediently took her seat three steps below his. The other immortals hummed with questions.

  A vise gripped Demeter’s heart. It couldn’t be. Aeons had passed— enough time for him to have let go of the matter, or to have forgotten altogether. No one had seen him outside his realm since the end of the war…

  The linen chitons of the Olympians fluttered against their sun-kissed bodies as a cool wind blew through the throne room. A river of black smoke flowed into the hall, startling all but one. Demeter stood her ground, fists balled in anger.

  Hades walked out of the smoke clad in black robes, his long, curling black hair pulled back with a golden band. He wore a simple crown of poplar leaves and three dark red gems shone on his left hand. His raiment looked austere among the rest of the bejeweled immortals. Aidoneus surveyed the room. This court is more revelry than rule, he thought, a social club in the sky for the deathless ones.

  Hestia drew her veil over her face. Artemis whispered in Athena’s ear. Aphrodite sneered and crowded toward Ares, who puffed out his chest. Apollo raised a golden eyebrow. One by one, they bowed their heads to the eldest of the Olympian gods.

  Demeter stood imperiously in the middle of the hall, the last to bow to the Lord of the Underworld. Aidoneus could feel wrath flowing from her, and was transported back to the last night any of the Olympians had seen him outside his realm.

  He approached the throne and bent to one knee. The room was silent, every eye transfixed. He planted one hand on the white marble floor and bowed his head low.

  “Lord Zeus, Queen Hera, I have come to claim what was promised to me during the Titanomach—”

  “No!” Demeter cried out. The room collectively gasped, then filled with chatter. Aidoneus kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

  Hermes slammed his caduceus three times on the floor and Zeus bellowed, “Silence!”

  After the roll of thunder subsided, Demeter calmed, her voice wavering. “Lord Hades, you cannot have her. She is sworn only to her worshippers, the fields, and to me.” She walked forward and stared up at the dais. “Zeus! Your daughter tends to the young shoots and flowers—”

  “Demeter,” Zeus s
ighed. He had loved her once; had intended to make her queen until she had proven her ineptitude during the Olympians’ war with the Titans. “Persephone was long ago promised to Hades. She is a woman now and has been of age for centuries. It is past time for her to leave you.”

  “I will not hand over my only daughter to the Lord of the Dead. I will not see her traded like chattel!”

  “It’s not your decision to make, my lady,” Zeus replied stonily.

  “Why not?! You had nothing to do with nurturing her; you have no right to give her away to someone who has been a stranger to us for aeons.”

  “It is not your responsibility to decide these things,” Zeus said. “You did well in raising her, but Persephone is one of my—”

  “My lords,” she interrupted, raising her voice. If they would not listen, she had to leave now, before it was too late. She had to protect Kore. “Know this. If you so much as touch her,” she hissed at Hades, “I will know of it. And rest assured, I will turn the world upside down before I allow her to be taken from me.”

  “Demeter…”

  She bowed curtly to Zeus. A field of barley rose around her and she disappeared into the thick of the blades, her final words on the matter echoing back through the ether. “I have spoken.”

  Aidoneus rose and looked around the room, insulted and embarrassed. The others stood stock-still. So this was how it was to be— no one would speak up for the oldest and most sacred pact of the Olympians. He wondered why that surprised him. Hades turned on his heel, and a soft rumble emanated from the throne. “Aidoneus…”

  He looked back up at Zeus. “You must make Demeter comply.”

  “Leave us, now. All of you!” Zeus bellowed. “Except you two,” he said, motioning to Hermes and Eros. Hades waited while the ten remaining Olympians and their attendants departed, nodding respectfully to Hera. The winged son of Aphrodite thinned his lips. Hermes fidgeted with his caduceus.

  “Why them?” Aidoneus growled.

  “Witnesses, of course. This is a marriage negotiation, is it not?”