The Taste Of Divinity

Τ Ρ Ι Α Ν Τ Α Ε Ξ Ι

F E W H O U R S L A T E R, R O Y A L S T A B L E S.

The tragedy began writing itself in the early hours of the morning.

The world outside was dark still, the Sun resting in its cave under the oil smooth sea. The mist had grown softer in the hours following the scene in the garden as well as the ultimate surrender to the whispering night, dancing with weary eyes and loose limbs as though drowsy.

It danced like a memory moments before fading, the last fragment of a dream moments after waking, lost in the aphotic shadows created by the willows and the perpetually withering poplar trees.

And yet, it still refused to rest.

The mist swayed and clung to the King, utterly blind and lost as the fates weaved the thread of life in patterns that-centuries away from those moments-would resemble the way ink seeps into paper, as yet another catastrophe is being written.

Perhaps it had known of the tale that would follow, the inevitable betrayal that would be painted on the servant's tongue. How could it not, after all, when it had slipped into the mind of the shadow that carried the words?

"My Lord, I bring unpleasant news."

"More unpleasant than the summon the messenger delivered?"

"Yes, my Lord." Agisilaos kept his gaze frozen on the granite floor as he spoke, out of respect or fear or a mixture of the two, counting the never ending cracks, the fruit of the dreaded King's past wraths. Another remnant from the days the ground quaked beneath his feet, restlessly vying for his attention.

There will be more, he almost whispered, instantly regretting his inability to keep the secret beneath his tongue where it belonged, there will be many more when he learns the truth.

"Am I meant to drag these news out of your tongue, Agisilae, or should I pay a visit to the Pythia of Delphi on my way to Olympos to see if her ability of speech is not as compromised?"

The shadow, loyal as a Laconian hound, had been standing there for hours, counting while his master readied his horses, gathering the last scraps of courage that fear had left behind after abandoning its feast.

He had been silent for hours, nursing that one breath he had taken to calm his nerves once he'd reached the King, filling his transparent lungs with useless oxygen, knowing the question that was bound to enter his ears.

It was anxiety that had ruled over his being then, it was anxiety that became his liege, his everything. And as an obedient slave, he did not dare disobey its commands.

"I. . ." The shadow coughed into his closed fist, stealing a moment or two to gather his thoughts as Aidoneus carried on preparing his stallions, his movements stiff and mechanic, lacking the ease of before. "I have become the shadow of the Anassa all these days, my philoxene Anax, as you instructed me."

His eyes, milky and unfocused, missed the way the King's back stiffened as a bitter taste vaguely reminiscent of cyanide filled his mouth.

A wave of unease swam inside Hades' auriferous veins at the gravelly tone. He hastily dropped his palm from Aethon's snout while the other stallions watched in silence, his brows crawling closer and closer to each other, as though crawling to each other to share a kiss, to hide the storm brewing inside.

It was rather easy to slip on the mask--reminiscent of the Mycenean ones created for the ones death had chosen to touch.

It was rather easy to pretend he was in control of his emotions while wearing it, that the sea inside him was peaceful and oil smooth instead of tempestuous and soul snatching.