The Taste Of Divinity

Ε Ι Κ Ο Σ Ι Ε Π Τ Α

He grew distant towards her in the days that followed their last horrid encounter, cold. He shared no more stories with her over dinner, he offered no compliments, he gave no words of comfort. No, in fact, he remained deadly silent throughout the long, empty hours and she was left to feed the words of Hekate and Minthe to the silence, ignoring the idol's assurances and hope that they were a worthy offering for the beast.

They developed yet another routine.

Most nights, even though the stars were burning bright, he would not even spare more than a couple glances at her. And yet, her maids still insisted on pampering her for hours, turning her almost unrecognisable for the benefit of a King with no eyes.

She had long since stopped her efforts to deter them, curious as she was to catch the whispers they shared when they thought she was not listening. As it appeared, not only the Olympians and the nymphs had loose tongues in the dark.

They drew pretty patterns on her sunless face, gifting her with eyes as dark at the starless sky and lips as red as the cherry coloured pillars he seemed so unexplanably fond of, a terror of Phoenician Red. They dressed her in wine dark fabrics woven by spiders and all the regal shades of black, tying her hair back with ribbons of gold, wreaths and jewels.

Needless to say, those were removed the minute she was taken to the dining room, refusing to suffer through the burning of her skull and the migraine that grew just from the thought of them all for the sake of looking like a proper wife.

Of course, it made little difference to him, focused as he was on the stories hidden under the ink of his papyri. He'd taken up the habit of reading them while eating, stretching the faded yellow papers under a cup of nectar and the occasional plate of fruit. Apples, not pomegranates.

When his lack of interest became unbearable, she would excuse herself, silently hoping for a word of protest, the start of a wildfire that would end up burning them both. But she received nothing of the sort, only a flick of his wrist, only a soundless dismissal, the kind he usually reserved for servants and pests.

It was payback for her careless accusations. She'd insulted him that night, implied that he was no law keeper, merely a puppet master that indulged in playing with his toys, implied that she was nothing but an ornament, a toy to take out of the chest of horrors and play with until he grew bored of the way it breathed and the dullness of its wooden movements.

She had not known that the King of the Underworld did not take kindly to anyone speaking ill of his wife, even if the slanderer was the Queen herself.

Of course, she did not see it like that. She thought it was an act, a game to prove the authenticity of his harsh words. And Gaia only knew how tiring his most recent pastime had become for her.

One night, when her vexation had managed to overthrow reason from its throne, she slammed her palms against the wooden table as she rose from her seat--twice as was the custom--forcing his attention to shift to her. The summoning had worked, if only for the  briefest of moments.

A dark brow lifted in question.

"It is time to stop with the games, don't you think?"

"Games, Persephone, to which games are you referring to?" A jewelled knuckle kissed his cheekbone as he tapped his temple. Once. Twice. A million times. "You will have to enlighten me because I do not see a single piece of Petteia laid before either of us."

"Do not play the fool, we both know it hardly suits you." Her palms lay flat on the table still, she could feel every vibration from his tapping like the thunders under her skin. "You are not acting like yourself. Your silent treatment, your sudden interest in these stories of yours."