The Taste Of Divinity

Ε Ξ Ι

She had seen statues softer than him.

Imperfect as he was, he had nothing to envy from the graceful limestone creations with the frozen, serene smiles and vacant eyes. They were cold to the touch, even on the warmest afternoons when fabric stuck on skin and marble benches burned. They remained cool and offered no comfort to those who sought it.

He was a different matter altogether.

The harsh, carved lines of his cruelly handsome face and the downturned mouth that so rarely lifted with genuine happiness made it impossible to believe he was made of flesh while the heavy, frowning brows, the dark, abysmal eyes as well as the wide planes of his shoulders and the scars that adorned his naked flesh made it hard to believe he was not.

Product of the unsteady hand of an old sculptor who'd dedicated his life to creating that masterpiece, surely. 

She'd heard the mortals hit the ground with their palms until their skin was concealed by a river of deep crimson, frantically pleading for mercy. They called him cruel when they received none.

She'd heard the Olympians call him charming but their tilted lips always mocked their words. They, found him too dull, they said, too lifeless.

But his fingers shook when she got hold of them, his breathing stopped and his heart screamed loudly in his chest, beating against his ribcage as if begging to be released. How could his hands be warm--warmer than the harshest of days in the Sun, warmer than the marble stools that burned the skin of her thighs and left bright red imprints in their wake? How could a creature like that ever be characterised as lifeless?

"Persephone, are you listening to me?"

A low humming sound left her throat as her head jerked towards the voice of her oldest friend. She'd barely noticed the sharp sting on her shoulder, lost in her mind as she'd been. However, she played her part perfectly, rubbing the area and incorporating a hint of annoyance in her tone as she spoke. Yes, perfectly, as if she'd never been consumed by her frightening thoughts. "You realise that if you were any other I would have you punished for even daring to lift a hand on me."

"It is a good thing I am not any other, then, isn't it, filtati?" Kyane gifted her with an indescribable look, vaguely similar to the one she'd given her moments after she'd left the King who'd managed to slip undetected under her skin and found her by the river, lying on her side on the soft yielding grass, observing a water lily as if it hid the meaning of life in its petals.

She was a strange creature, that naiad. Truly strange.

"You promised to tell me about him."

Persephone attempted to force the groan that climbed the long, elegant curve of her neck back down but her effort was in vain. "What do you wish to know?"

The nymph threw her head back as her shoulders lifted in a shrug, her teal coloured hair a waterfall that covered her back. "He's handsome, the King." She mused, eyes glossing over. It was an expression that was quickly obliterated. An expression of dubious authenticity. "It is certainly a pity he has to spend his time surrounded by death."

"That wasn't a question."

"No," the naiad agreed, her nails abusing the petals of the flower. "I suppose it was not."

"Kyane." She warned, the vein in her delicate throat pulsating to the fervent rhythm of her heart. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing, ignore me." She dismissed her words with the impassioned flick of a wrist but soon changed her mind. "Or, better yet, you can tell me of your conversation with the Lord of the Dead."