The Goddess of Blessed Death

Makaria, Goddess of Blessed Death

Head throbbing, Macaria blinks her eyes open. She's laying on smooth, marble ground under dim, white lighting. The underground palace is humid, the ground slick and shiny with dampness. Dark marble and stone shoot up from the ground in columns to hold the low ceiling, the only thing earthen and rocky, aloft.

"She's awake," says a voice behind her, and Macaria sits and jerks around so fast that her head spins.

"Slow down, dear," says the same voice. It belongs to a woman with an otherworldly beauty with skin like that of limestone temple floors, glowing despite the grayish tint given to her by the lighting, or lack thereof. A wreath crown adorns her long, strawberry blonde hair. "You've traveled far." The woman smiles down at Macaria in a way that says, I know, I understand and It's going to be okay, you're okay now.

Macaria glances around once more, but it's not the statues and columns or the fact that the place seems to have no ending in any direction that catches her attention. As dark as the rest of the palace, two thrones rest atop three stairs. A man with an impassive expression and long, black robes sits on one. Even frowning, he gives nothing away. His eyes flicker between the two women before him as his bearded chin rests on the back of his hand. Gray tinges the otherwise ash-black hairs. A crown of golden leaves sits atop his curly, long hair.

When Macaria looks again at the woman, she understands that her eyes rest upon the goddess Persephone. As if in confirmation, a closer inspection of her crown reveals tiny animal skulls placed into the garland, and Macaria audibly swallows. She quickly turns and prostrates herself before the sovereigns of the underworld.

A gentle touch to her shoulder lets her know she may rise. Persephone takes Macaria's hand and helps her to her feet, holding it tightly as the room around her sways for a moment.

"I don't understand," Macaria whispers.

A drip of water can be heard from far off somewhere.

Persphone bestows upon her that same sympathetic smile. "Welcome, Macaria, Daughter of Heracles," she says. "There's a feast to be had in your honor."

Macaria looks at the goddess incredulously.

"Henceforth you will be known as Makaria, Goddess of Blessed Deaths, Daughter of Hades."

"Excuse me?"

"Through your sacrifice to Athena, she has granted you a life of immortality," Persphone said.

Another drip of water. It echoes through Makaria's skull. The news brings neither jubilation nor fury but shock.

"Perhaps some food and drink will make you feel better." Hades rises from his seat, towering high enough the tips of his crown's large golden leaves could be a centimeter from the ceiling. He steps down the stairs and approaches, holding out a pale hand before Makaria can bow or fall to her knees again.

"From now on it will only be mortals doing it to you," he murmurs. "This is your home now, the feast will be ready by the time we arrive, and you are the goddess of honor—almost literally now, thanks to Athena." He's already walking away, still talking, with Persephone on his arm. She glances back and motions with her other hand for Makaria to follow.

Like a frightened but loyal puppy, Makaria does. Her bare feet pad against the cool floor, a moistness collecting beneath with every step. She is still in the attire she died—or didn't die in. She wonders if but would be rude to ask if she was dead.

"It was your honor, after all, that has brought you here," Hades says. "Not to mention Thanatos."

Makaria stops and at the ceasing of the sound of feet walking, Persephone also stops, Hades only doing so a second after his wife does. Persephone lets go of Hades, who looks at her with a concoction of vexation and hurt before blinking away the emotions. She strides over to Makaria and brushes her warm hands up and down Makaria's cold ones, bringing out the gooseflesh on her arms.